Frederick the Great appeared to be gay and happy, but these four years had not passed away without leaving a mark upon his brow and a shadow on his heart; his youthful smile had vanished, and the expression of his lip was stern and resolved. He was now thirty- eight years of age, and was still a handsome man, but the sunshine of life had left him; his eyes could flash and threaten like Jove's, but the soft and loving glance was quenched. Like Polycrates, King Frederick, in order to propitiate fate, had sacrificed his idol. He had thus lost his rarest jewel, had become poor in love. Perhaps his crown rested more firmly upon his head, but his heart had received an almost mortal wound; it had healed, but he was hardened!

Frederick thought not of the past four years, and their griefs and losses, as he stood now upon the terrace of Sans-Souci, illuminated by the evening sun, and gazed with ravished eyes upon the panorama spread out before him.

"Beautiful, wondrous beautiful!" he said to himself. "I think Voltaire will find that the sun is even as warm and cheering at Sans-Souci as at Cirey, and that we can be gay and happy without the presence of the divine Emilie, who enters one moment with her children, and the next with her learned and abstruse books. [Footnote: Voltaire lived for ten years in Cirey with his friend the Marquise Emilie de Chatelet Samont, a very learned lady, to whom he was much devoted. He had refused all Frederick's invitations because he was unwilling to be separated from this lady. After twenty years of marriage, in the year 1749, the countess gave birth to her first child; two hours after the birth of her son, she seated herself at her writing-table to write an essay on the Newtonian system; in consequence of this she sickened and died in two days. After her death, Voltaire accepted Frederick's invitation to Sans-Souci.] Ah! I wish he were here; so long as I do not see him, I doubt if he will come."

At this moment the king saw the shadow of a manly figure thrown upon the terrace, which the evening sun lengthened into a giant's stature. He turned and greeted the Marquis d'Argens, who had just entered, with a gracious smile.

"You are indeed kind, marquis," said Frederick; "you have returned from Berlin so quickly, I think Love must have lent you a pair of wings."

"Certainly, Love lent me his wings; the little god knew that your majesty was the object of my greatest admiration, and that I wished to fly to your feet and shake out from my horn of plenty the novelties and news of the day."

"There is something new, then?" said the king. "I have done well in sending you as an ambassador to the Goddess of Rumor; she has graciously sent you back full-handed: let us see, now, in what your budget consists."

"The first, and I am sorry to say the most welcome to your majesty, is this—Voltaire has arrived in Berlin, and will be here to-morrow morning."

The king's countenance was radiant with delight, but he was considerate, and did not express his rapture.

"Dear marquis, you say that Voltaire has arrived. Do you indeed regret it?"

D'Argens was silent and thoughtful for a moment; he raised his head, and his eyes were obscured by tears.

"Yes," said he, "I am sorry! We greet the close of a lovely day, no matter how glorious the declining sun may be, with something of fear and regret; who can tell but that clouds and darkness may be round about the morning? To-morrow a new day dawns and a new sun rises in Sans-Souci. Sire, I grieve that this happy day is ended."

"Jealous!" said the king, folding his arms and walking backward and forward upon the terrace. Suddenly he stood before D'Argens and laid his hands upon his shoulders. "You are right," said he; "a new day dawns, a new sun rises upon Sans-Souci, but I fear the sun's bright face will be clouded and the day will end in storm. Voltaire is the last ideal of my youth; God grant that I may not have to cast it aside with my other vain illusions! God grant that the man Voltaire may not cast down the genius Voltaire from the altar which, with willing hands, I have erected for him in my heart of hearts. I fear the cynic and the miser. I have a presentiment of evil! My altar will fall to pieces, and its ruins will crush my own heart. Say what you will, D'Argens, I have still a heart, though the world has gnawed at and undermined it fearfully."

"Yes, sire, a great, noble, warm heart," cried D'Argens, deeply moved, "full of love and poetry, of magnanimity and mercy!"

"You must not betray these weaknesses to Voltaire," said the king, laughing; "he would mock at me, and I should suffer from his poisonous satire, as I have done more than once. Voltaire is miserly; that displeases me. Covetousness is a rust which will obscure and at last destroy the finest metal! The miser loves nothing but himself. I fear that Voltaire comes to me simply for the salary I have promised him, and the four thousand thalers I have sent him for his journey!"

"In this, sire, you do both yourself and Voltaire injustice. Voltaire is genial enough to look, not upon your crown, but upon the clear brow which it shades. He admires and seeks you, not because you are a king, but because you are a great spirit, a hero, an author, a scholar, and a philosopher, and, best of all, a good and noble man."

"What a simple-minded child yon are, marquis!" said Frederick, with a sad smile; "you believe even yet in the unselfish attachments of men. Truly, you have a right to this rare faith; you, at least, are capable of such an affection. I am vain enough to believe that you are unselfishly devoted to me."

"God be thanked for this word!" said D'Argens, with a glowing countenance. "And now let Voltaire and the seven wise men, and Father Abraham himself come; your Isaac fears none of them; my king has faith in me!"

"Yes," said Frederick, "I believe in you; an evil and bitter thing will it be, if the day shall ever come when I shall doubt you; from that time onward I will trust no man. I tell you, D'Argens, your kindly face and your love are necessary to me; I will use them as a shield to protect myself against the darts and wiles of the false world. You must never leave me; I need your calm, kind eye, your happy smile, your childish simplicity, and your wise experience; I need a Pylades, I well believe that something of Orestes is hidden in my nature. And now, my Pylades, swear to me, swear to me that you will never leave me; that from this hour you will have no other fatherland than Prussia, no other home than Potsdam and Sans-Souci."

"Ah, your majesty asks too much. I cannot adjure my fatherland, I cannot relinquish my Provence. I am the Switzer, with his song of home; when he hears it in his own land, his heart bounds with joy; when he hears it in a strange land, his eyes fill with sorrowful tears. So it is with the 'beau soleil de ma Provence,' the remembrance of it warms my heart; I think that if I were a weak old man, the sight of my beautiful sunny home would make me young and strong. Your majesty will not ask me to abandon my land forever?"

"You love the sun of Provence, then, more than you do me," said Frederick, with a slight frown.

"Your majesty cannot justly say that, when I have turned my back upon it, and shouted for joy when the sun of the north has cast its rays upon me. Sire, let me pass my life under the glorious northern sun, but grant that I may die in my own land."

"You are incomprehensible, D'Argens; how can you know when you are about to die, and when it will be time to return to your beautiful Provence?"

"It has been prophesied that I shall live to be very old, and I believe in prophecy."

"What do you call old, marquis? Zacharias was eighty years of ago when his youthful wife of seventy gave birth to her first child."

"God guard me from such an over-ripe youth and such a youthful wife, sire! I shall be content if my heart remains young till my seventieth year, and has strength to love my king and rejoice in his fame; then, sire, I shall be aged and cold, and then it will be time for the sun of Provence to shine upon me and iny grave. When I am seventy years of age, your majesty must allow your faithful servant to remember that France is his home, and to seek his grave even where his cradle stood."

"Seventy, marquis! and how old are you now?"

"Sire, I am still young—forty-six years of age. You see I have only sought a plea to remain half an eternity at the feet of your majesty."

"You are forty-six, and you are willing to remain twenty-four years at my side. I will then be sixty-six; that is to say, I will be hard of heart and cold of purpose. I will despise mankind, and have no illusions. Marquis, I believe when that time comes, I can give you up. Let it be so!—you remain with me till you are seventy. Give your word of honor to this, marquis."

"Rather will your majesty be gracious enough to promise not to dismiss me before that time?"

"I promise you, and I must have your oath in return."

"Sire, I swear! On that day in which I enter my seventieth year, I will send you my certificate of baptism, which you will also look upon as my funeral notice. You will say sadly, 'The Marquis d'Argens is dead,' and I—I will go to ma belle Provence, and seek my grave." [Footnote: Thiebault, vol. i., p. 360.]

"But before this time you will become very religious, a devotee, will you not?"

"Yes, sire; that is, I shall devoutly acknowledge all your goodness to me. I shall be the most religious worshipper of all that your majesty has done for the good of mankind, for the advancement of true knowledge, and the glory of your great name."

"So far, so good; but there is in this world another kind of religion, in the exercise of which you have as yet shown but little zeal. Will you at last assume this mask, and contradict the principles which you have striven to maintain during your whole life? Will you, at the approach of death, go through with those ceremonies and observances which religion commands?"

The marquis did not reply immediately. His eye turned to the beautiful prospect lying at his feet, upon which the last purple rays of the evening sun were now lingering.

"This is God, sire!" said he, enthusiastically; "this is truly God! Why are men not content to worship Him in nature, to find Him where He most assuredly is? Why do they seek Him in houses made with hands, and—"

"And in wafers made of meal and water?" said Frederick, interrupting him; "and now tell me, marquis, will you also one day seek Him thus?"

"Yes, sire," said D'Argens, after a short pause, "I will do thus from friendship to my brothers, and interest for my family."

"That is to say, you will be unfaithful to the interests of philosophy and truth?"

"It will appear so, sire; but no man of intellect and thought will be duped by this seeming inconsistency. If the part which I play seem unworthy, I may be excused in view of my motive—at all events, I do not think it wrong. The folly of mankind has left me but one alternative—to be a hypocrite, or to prepare bitter grief for my relations, who love me tenderly. 'Out of love,' then, for my family, I will die a hypocrite. [Footnote: The marquis returned to Provence, in his seventieth year, and died there. The journals hastened to make known that he died a Christian, recanting his atheistical philosophy. The king wrote to the widow of the marquis for intelligence on this subject. She replied that her husband had received the last sacraments, but only after he was in the arms of death, and could neither see nor hear, and she herself had left the room. The marquise added: "Ah, sire, what a land is this! I have been assured that the greatest service I could render to my husband would be to burn all his writings, to give all his pictures to the flames; that the more we burn on earth of that which is sinful or leads to sin, the less we shall burn in hell!"—Oeuvres Posthumes, vol. xii., p. 316.] But, sire, why should we speak of death? why disquiet the laughing spirits of the Greeks and Romans, who now inhabit this their newest temple by discoursing of graves and skeletons?"

"You are right, marquis—away with the ghastly spectre! This present life belongs to us, and a happy life it shall be. We will sit at the feet of Voltaire, and learn how to banish the sorrows of life by wit and mocking laughter. With the imagination and enthusiasm of poets, we will conceive this world to be a paradise. And now tell me what other news you have brought back with you from Berlin."

"Well, sire, Voltaire is not the only star who has risen in Berlin. There are other comets which from time to time lighten the heavens, and then disappear for a season to reappear and bring strife and war upon the earth."

Frederick looked searchingly upon the marquis. "You speak in riddles—what comet has returned?"

"Sire, I know not what to call it. She herself claims a name, her right to which is disputed by the whole world, though she swears by it."

"She? it is, then, a woman of whom you speak?"

"Yes, sire; a woman whom for years we worshipped as a goddess, or at least as an enchanting fairy—Barbarina has returned to Berlin."

"Returned?" said the king, indifferently; but he walked away thoughtfully to the end of the terrace, and gazed upon the lovely landscape which, in its quiet beauty, brought peace to his heart, and gave him the power of self-control.

The marquis stood apart, and looked with kindly interest upon his noble face, now lighted by the glad golden rays of the sinking sun. Among the trees arose one of those fierce, sighing winds, which often accompany the declining sun, and seem the last struggling groans of the dying day. This melancholy sound broke the peaceful stillness around the castle, and drowned the babbling of the brooks and cascades. As the wild wind rustled madly through the trees, it tore from their green boughs the first faded, yellow leaves which had lain concealed, like the first white hairs on the temples of a beautiful woman, and drove them here and there in wanton sport. One o these withered leaves fell at the feet of the king. He took it up and gazed at it. Pensively he drew near the marquis.

"Look you, friend," said he, holding up the fallen leaf toward the marquis; "look you, this is to me the Barbarina—a faded remembrance of the happy past, and nothing more. Homer was right when he likened the hearts of men to the yellow leaves tossed and driven by the winds. Even such a leaf is Barbarina; I raise it and lay it in my herbarium with other mementoes, and rejoice that the dust and ashes of life have fallen upon it, and taken from it form and color. And now that you know this, D'Argens, tell me frankly why the signora has returned. Does she come alone, or with her husband, Lord Stuart McKenzie?"

"She has returned with her sister, and Lord Stuart is not her husband. It is said that when Barbarina arrived in England, she found him just married to a rich Scotch lady."

The king laughed heartily. "And yet men expect us to listen gravely when they rave of the eternity of their love," said he. "This little sentimental lord called heaven and earth to witness the might of his love for Barbarina. Was he not almost a madman when I seized his jewel, and tore her away from Venice? Did he not declare that he would consider me answerable for his life and reason, if I did not release my prima donna? He wished her to enter, with an artistic pirouette, his lofty castle, and place herself, as Lady Stuart McKenzie, amongst his ever-worthy, ever-virtuous, ever-renowned ancestors. And now, Barbarina can stand as godmother by his first born."

"Or he perform that holy office for Barbarina. It is said that she is also married."

"To whom?"

"To the state councillor, Cocceji."

"Folly! how can that be? She has been in England, and he has not left Berlin. But her return will bring us vexation and strife, and I see already the whole dead race of the Coccejis raising up their skeleton arms from their graves to threaten the bold dancer, who dares to call herself their daughter. I prophesy that young Cocceji will become even as cool and as reasonable as Lord Stuart McKenzie has become. Give a man time to let the fire burn out—all depends upon that. This favor his family may well demand of me, and I must grant it. But now let us enter the house, marquis, the sun has disappeared, and I am chilled. I know not whether the news you bring, or the evening air, has affected me. Let us walk backward and forward once or twice, and then we will go to the library, and you will assist me in the last verse of a poem I am composing to greet Voltaire. Do not frown, marquis, let me sing his welcome; who knows but I may also rejoice in his departure? My heart is glad at his coming, and yet I fear it. We must not scrutinize the sun too closely, or we will find spots upon his glorious face. Perhaps Voltaire and myself resemble each other too much to live in peace and harmony together. I think wo are only drawn permanently to our opposites. Believe me, D'Argens, I shall not be able to live twenty- four years happily with Voltaire, as I shall surely do with you. Twenty-four years! do not forget that you are mine for twenty-four years."

"Sire, as long as I live I am yours. You have not bought me with gold, but by the power of a noble soul. So long as I live, my heart belongs to you, even when, at seventy, I fly to seek my grave in belle Provence. But, my king, I have yet another favor to ask of you."

"Speak, marquis, but do not be so cruel as to ask that which I cannot grant."

"If it shall please Providence to call me away before I have attained my seventieth year, if I die in Berlin, will your majesty grant me the grace not to be buried in one of those dark, damp, dreary churchyards, where skull lies close by skull, and at the resurrection every one will be in danger of seizing upon the bones which do not belong to him, and appearing as a thief at the last judgment? I pray you, let me remain even in death an individual, and not be utterly lost in the great crowd. If I die here, grant that I may be buried where, when living, I have been most happy. Allow me, after a long and active day, to pass the night of immortality in the garden of Sans-Souci."

"It shall be so," said the king, much moved. "There, under the statue of Flora, is my grave—where shall be yours? Choose for yourself."

"If I dare choose, sire, let it be there under that beautiful vase of ebony."

Frederick gave a smiling assent, and taking the arm of the marquis, he said, "Come, we will go to the vase, and I will lay my hand upon it and consecrate it to you."

Silently they passed the statue of Flora, which Frederick greeted gayly, and the marquis with profound reverence then mounted two small steps and stood upon the green circle. The king paused and looked down thoughtfully upon a gravestone which his feet almost touched.

"Be pious and prayerful on this spot," said he; "we stand by the grave of my most faithful friend, who is enjoying before us the happiness of everlasting sleep. Here lies Biche! Hat off, marquis! She loved me, and was faithful unto death. Who knows if I, under my statue of Flora, and you, under your vase, will merit the praise which I, with my whole soul, award to my Biche! She was good and faithful to the end." [Footnote: Nicolai, "Anecdoten."—Heft, p. 202.]



CHAPTER II.

VOLTAIRE AND HIS ROYAL FRIEND.

The king had withdrawn to his library earlier than usual; he had attended a cabinet council, worked for an hour with his minister of state, and, after fulfilling these public duties, withdrawn gladly to his books, hoping to consume the time which crept along with leaden feet.

The king expected Voltaire; he knew he had arrived at Potsdam, where he would rest and refresh himself for a few hours, and then proceed at once to Sans-Souci.

Frederick regarded this first meeting with Voltaire, after long years of separation, with more of anxiety than of joyful impatience. Voltaire's arrival and residence at Sans-Souci had been the warm desire of Frederick's heart for many years, and yet, as the time for its fulfilment drew near, the king almost trembled. What did this mean? How was it that this friendship, which for sixteen years had been so publicly avowed, and so zealously confirmed by private oaths and protestations, seemed now wavering and uncertain?

About now to reach the goal so ardently striven for, the king felt that he was not pleased. A cold blast seemed to sweep over him, and fill him with sad presentiments.

Frederick was filled with wonder and admiration for the genius of the great French writer, but he knew that, as a man, Voltaire was unworthy of his friendship. He justly feared that the realities of life and daily intercourse would fall like a cold dew upon this rare blossom of friendship between a king and a poet; this tender plant which, during so many years of separation, they had nourished and kept warm by glowing assurances and fiery declarations, must now be removed from the hot-house of imagination, where it had been excited to false growth by the eloquence of letters, and transplanted into a world of truth and soberness.

This friendship had no real foundation; it floated like a variegated phantom in the air, a fata morgana, whose glittering temple halls and pillars would soon melt away like the early cloud and the morning dew. In these "cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces," the two great freethinkers and genial philosophers of their century intended to cultivate and enjoy their friendship. In these temples of air they wished to embrace each other, but the two-edged sword of mistrust and suspicion already flashed between them, and both felt inclined to draw back.

Both doubted the sincerity of this friendship, and the less they believed in it the more eloquently they declaimed as to its ardor and eternity. Each one thought to himself, "I will enjoy and profit by the fruit of this friendship, I will yield up the blossoms only." The blossoms, alas! were artificial, without odor and already fading, though at the first glance they looked fresh and promising.

Once, in the youthful ardor of his enthusiasm for genius, Frederick had forgotten himself so far as to kiss the hand of Voltaire. [Footnote: Thiebault.] The proud and ambitious poet had boasted loudly of this act of devotion; for this Frederick had never forgiven him; he should have guarded it as a holy and dangerous secret in the innermost shrine of his heart. Voltaire was angry with the king because he had lately addressed some verses to the young poet D'Arnaud, in which he was represented as the rising and Voltaire as the setting sun. [Footnote: Oeuvres posthumes.] And yet they believed they loved each other, and were about to put their love to the severe test of uninterrupted intercourse.

The king awaited Voltaire with impatience, and now he heard the rolling of carriage-wheels, then the opening of doors, then the sound of voices. In the first impulse of joy he sprang from his seat and advanced eagerly to meet Voltaire, but reaching the threshold of the door ho stood still and considered. "No," said he, "I will not go to meet him—he would mock at me, perhaps boast of it." He turned back to Iris chair, and took up the book he had been reading. And now some one tapped gently upon the door, a servant appeared and announced "Monsieur Voltaire," and now a figure stood upon the door- sill.

This man, with a small, contracted chest, with a back bowed down by old age or infirmities; this man, with the wonderous countenance, of which no one could decide if it was the face of a satyr or a demi- god; whose eyes flashed with heavenly inspiration at one moment, and in the next glowed with demoniac fire; whose lips were distorted by the most frightful grimaces or relaxed into the most enchanting smiles—this man is Voltaire.

As Frederick's glance met those burning eyes, he forgot all else, his royalty, his dignity, even Voltaire's baseness and vanity; he was to him the spirit of the age, the genius of the world, and he hastened to meet him, opened his arms wide, and pressed him tenderly to his heart. "Welcome, welcome, my lord and master," said the king; "I receive you, as becomes a pupil, in my school-room, surrounded by my books, whose mysterious lessons of wisdom, you, my teacher, will make clear."

"On the contrary, sire," said Voltaire, with a soft voice and a most enchanting smile—"on the contrary, you receive me with all the pomp of royalty seated upon a throne, which is not yours by inheritance, but which you have conquered; upon the throne of knowledge and learning, crowned with the laurels which the gods consecrate to heroes and poets. Alas! my eyes are dazzled by the lustre which surrounds me. I bow in humility before this lordly head adorned by two royal crowns and reigning over two mighty kingdoms. Receive me, sire, as an ambassador from the realm of poets, whose crown you wear with so much grace and dignity."

Frederick smiled kindly. "Let me be only a burgher and your comrade in arms in the republic of letters," said he. "I hold republics generally as impossibilities, but I believe in a republic of letters, and I have a right republican heart, striving after liberty, equality, and brotherly love. Remember this, friend, and let us forget at Sans-Souci that your comrade is sometimes the first servant of a kingdom. And now, tell me how you have borne the fatigues of the journey, and if you have been received at every station with the marked attention I had commanded."

"Yes, sire, everywhere in Prussia I have felt myself almost oppressed, humbled, by your greatness. How great, how mighty, how powerful, must your majesty be, when I am so distinguished, so honored, simply because I enjoy your favor! This honor and this pleasure alone have given me strength for my journey. My friends in Paris thought it absurd and ridiculous for me, in my miserable condition, to attempt so fatiguing a journey. But, sire, I was not willing to die before I had once more sat at the feet of this great and yet simple man, this exalted yet genial philosopher. I wished to revive and quicken my sick heart at this fountain of wit and wisdom. I come, therefore, not as Voltaire, but as the tragic Scarron of your century, and throughout my whole journey I have called myself the 'Invalid of the King of Prussia.'" [Footnote: Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire. Oeuvres Posthumes.]

Frederick laughed heartily. "The Marshal of Saxony and yourself are in the same condition with your maladies; in the extremity of illness you have more energy and power than all other men in the most robust health. Voltaire, if you had not come now I should have considered you a bad penny: in place of the true metal of friendship I should have suspected you of palming off plated lead upon me. It is well for you that you are here. You are like the white elephant for whom the Shah of Persia and the Great Mogul are continually at war. The one who is so fortunate as to possess the white elephant makes it always the occasion of an added title. I will follow their example, and from this time my title shall run thus: 'Frederick, by the grace of God, King of Prussia, Prince-Elector of Brandenburg, Possessor of Voltaire, etc. etc.'"

"Your majesty may say, 'of inalienable Voltaire.' I am wiser than the white elephant; no war shall be necessary to conquer or to hold me. I declare myself your majesty's most willing subject joyfully. Let me then be your white elephant, sire, and if the Great Mogul covets and demands me, I pray you to conceal me."

While Voltaire was speaking, he cast a sly glance upon the countenance of the king, his smile disappeared, and his face lost its kindly expression.

Frederick did not, or would not see it. "Not so," said he, gayly; "I will not conceal you, but boldly declare that you are mine."

"I am, nevertheless, the subject of the King of France," said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders. "When I resolved to leave Paris, they did not deprive me of my title of 'Historian of the King of France,' they only took from me my pension. They knew I must travel by post, and that a title was less weighty for the horses than a pension of six thousand livres; so they lightened me of that, and I come unpensioned to your majesty."

This little comedy was too clear to escape the king, but he seemed not to understand it. A shadow fell upon his brow, and the expression of his face was troubled. He wished to worship Voltaire as a noble, exalted genius, and he was pained to find him a pitiful, calculating, common man.

"You have, then, fallen under the displeasure of my brother Louis, of France?" said he.

"On the contrary, I am assured that I stand in the highest favor. I am, indeed, honored with a most agreeable and nattering commission; and if your majesty allows, I will immediately discharge it."

"Do so," said Frederick, smiling. "Lay aside every weight, that your wings may waft you into the heaven of heavens while at Sans-Souci. You have been relieved of your pension, cast all your ballast into the scale also."

"Sire, the Marquise de Pompadour directed me to present your majesty with her most obedient and submissive greetings, and to assure you of her reverence and heart-felt devotion."

Frederick quietly drew his tabatiere from his vest-pocket, and slowly taking a pinch of snuff, he fixed his burning eyes upon Voltaire's smiling and expectant face; then said, with the most complete indifference, "The Marquise de Pompadour. Who is she? I do not know her!"

Voltaire looked at the king astonished and questioning.

Frederick did not remark this, but went on quietly: "Have you no other greetings for me? Have none of the great spirits, in which Paris is so rich, remembered me?"

"I shall be careful not to mention any other greetings. All the so- called great spirits appear so small in the presence of your exalted majesty, I fear you will not acknowledge them."

"Not so," said Frederick; "I gladly recognize all that is really great and worthy of renown. Voltaire will never find a more enthusiastic admirer than I am."

"Ah, sire, these words are a balsam which I will lay upon my breast, lacerated by the wild outcries of my critics."

"So the critics have been giving you trouble?" said Frederick.

"Yes, sire," said Voltaire, with the passionate scorn so peculiar to him; "they have bored their insatiable and poisonous teeth into my flesh. They are so miserable and so pitiful, that I seem to myself miserable and pitiful as their victim, and in all humility I will ask your majesty, if such hounds are allowed to howl unpunished, would it not be better for Voltaire to creep into some den, and acknowledge the wild beasts of the forests as his brothers—perhaps they might regard his verses as melodious barkings and howlings?"

"Still the same boisterous hot-head, the Orlando Furioso," cried the king, laughing heartily. "Is your skin so tender still that the needles of the little critics disturb you, and to gratify their malice will you become a mule? If you are driven to abandon the Muses, friend, who will have the hardihood to stand by them? No, no! do not follow in the footsteps of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; do not 'visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation;' do not make the public of our day, and of the next century, suffer for the crimes of a few pitiful critics. The persecutions and slanders of the envious are the tribute great merit must always pay to the world at large. Let them rail on, but do not believe that the nations and the future will be duped by them. Utterly disregarding the criticisms of the so-called masters of art, we of this century admire and wonder at the chefs- d'oeuvre of Greece and Rome. The mad cry of Aeschines docs not obscure the fame of Demosthenes; and in spite of Lucian, Caesar is, and will ever remain, the greatest man the world has ever produced. I guarantee that after your death you will be canonized, worshipped. I humbly entreat you not to hasten the time, but be content to have the apotheosis in your pocket, and to be honored by all those who are too exalted to be envious or prejudiced. I, Frederick, stand foremost in the ranks." [Footnote: The king's own words.—Oeuvres Posthumes.]

"Why cannot the whole world be present to hear the words of a king whom I am proud, from this day onward, to call MY king?" cried Voltaire, passionately. "Sire, I love you ardently! I believe the gods made us for each other. I have long loved you tenderly! I have been angry with you, but I have forgiven you all, and I love you to madness! There was never a weaker, frailer body than mine, but my soul is strong! I dare to say I love you as much as I admire you! [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.] Verily, I hold this to be as great a conquest as the five other victories your majesty has achieved, and for which the world worships you. From this day I will be like your faithful hound; I will lie at your feet, even though you should spurn me, and declare that you will not be my master and lord. I will still return. Your threshold shall be my home, and I will be content with the crumbs which fall from your table. My fortune and my happiness shall consist in loving you!"

"I will not put your love to so hard a proof," said the king, smiling. "I dare hope to provide you with a more durable dwelling. I promise you shall not be like Lazarus, feeding upon crumbs. You shall be the rich man dispensing them."

Here was a sort of promise and assurance which banished in some degree the nervous anxiety and distrust of Voltaire, and his countenance once more beamed with joy. He suppressed his satisfaction, however, instantly. He did not wish to betray to the observant eye of Frederick his selfish and miserly nature, and assumed at once a melancholy look.

"Sire," said he, "I do not resemble Lazarus; and if your majesty does not possess the miraculous power of the young rabbi, Jesus Christus, I fear you will soon have to bury me. But I am as true a believer as any Jew. I trust fully to the magic power of your hand. Was not your marvellous touch sufficient to place beautiful Silesia, a gem of the first water, in the crown of Prussia?—to awaken spirits, sleeping almost the sleep of death, and to call into life on these barbarous northern steppes the blossoms of education and refinement? I believe in the miracles of the Solomon of the North, and I am willing to give my testimony to the whole world."

"Nevertheless, if the French cock crows, you will betray me three times," said the king. "I know you, Voltaire, and I know when you are enraged, nothing is sacred. I fear that here, as elsewhere, you will find provocations. But now, before all other things, what have you brought me? What gift has your muse produced for the poor philosopher of Sans-Souci? I will not believe that you come with empty hands, and that the Homer of France has broken his lyre."

"No, sire, I am not empty-handed! I have brought you a present. I believe it to be the best and most beautiful production of my muse. For twenty years I have swelled with indignation at the tragedy which my good friend, Master Crebillon, made of the most exalted subject of antiquity. With the adroit hands of a tailor he stitched up a monkey-jacket out of the purple toga, and adorned it with the miserable tawdry trifles of a pitiful lore and pompous Gothic verse! Crebillon has written a French Catiline. I, sire, have written a Roman Catiline! You shall see, sire, and you shall admire! In one of my most wretched, sleepless nights, the devil overcame me, and said: 'Revenge Cicero and France! Crebillon has disgraced both. Wash out this stain from France.' This was a good devil; and even you, sire, could not have driven me to work more eagerly than he did. Day and night he chained me to my writing-desk! I feared I should die of excitement, but the devil held on to me, and the spirits of the great Romans stood by my table and tore off the absurd and ridiculous masks which Crebillon had laid upon them. They showed me their true, exalted, glowing faces, and commanded me to portray them, 'that the world at last might feel their majestic beauty, and be no longer deceived by the caricatures of Crebillon!' I was obliged to obey, sire! I worked unceasingly, and in eight days I had finished! Catiline was born, and I was as much exhausted as ever a woman was at the birth of her first-born!" [Footnote: This whole speech is from Voltaire.]

"You do not mean that in eight days you completed the tragedy?" said the king. "You mean only that you have arranged the plot, and will finish the work here."

"No, sire, I bring you the tragedy complete, and I wrote it in eight days. Ah, sire, this is a tragedy you will enjoy! You will see no lovelorn Tullia, no infirm and toothless Cicero; you will see a fearful picture of Rome, a picture at which I myself shuddered. But, sire, when you read it, you must swear to me to read it in the same spirit in which it is written. I have left to my collegian Crebillon all his dramatic plunder; his Catiline is a pure fiction. I have written mine, remembering my province as an historian. Rome is my heroine; she is the mistress for whom I would interest all Europe. I have no other intrigue than Rome's danger; no other material than the mad craft of Catiline, the vehemence and heroic virtue of Cicero, the jealousy of the Roman Senate, the development of the character of Caesar; no other women than that unfortunate who was seduced by Catiline because of her gentleness and amiability. I know not, sire, if you will shudder at the fourth act, but I, the writer, trembled and shuddered. My tragedy is not formed upon any model, it is new in nova fert animus. Truly I know the world will rail at me for this, and the small souls gnash their teeth and howl, but my work is written with a great soul, and kindred spirits will comprehend me. The envious and the pitiful I will at last trample under my feet. Jupiter strove with the Titans and overcame them. I am no Jupiter, neither are my adversaries Titans."

While these words, in an irrepressible and powerful stream of eloquence, burst from his lips, Voltaire became another man. His countenance was imposing in its beauty, his eyes glowed with the fire of inspiration, an enchanting smile played upon his lips, and his bowed and contracted form was proudly erect and commanding. The king gazed upon him with admiration. At length, Voltaire, panting for breath, was silent. Frederick laid his two hands upon his shoulders, and looked into the glowing face with an indescribable expression of love and tenderness.

"Now," said he, "I have again and at last found my Voltaire, my proud, inspired king of poets, my Homer, crowned with immortality! The might of genius has torn away the mantle of the courtier, and in place of pitiful, pliant, humble words, I hear again the melodious, flashing, eloquent speech of my royal poet! Welcome, Voltaire, welcome to Sans-Souci, whose poor philosopher is but king of men, while the spirits are subject unto you! Ah, my all-powerful king and master, be gracious! You possess a wondrous realm, give me at least a small province in your kingdom."

"Sire, you mock at me," cried Voltaire. "I have written Caesar and Cicero for the theatre. You, however, exhibit on the stage of the world the two greatest men of the greatest century, combined in your own person. I have come to gaze upon this wonder; it is a far loftier drama than mine, and will be surely more nobly represented. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.] Your majesty represents what you truly are, but where shall I find actors to fill the role of Caesar, Cicero, and Catiline; how shall I change the pitiful souls of the coulisse into great men; make noble Romans out of these small pasteboard heroes of the mode? I could find no actors for my tragedy in Paris, and it shall never be unworthily represented!"

"We will bring it upon the stage here," said Frederick. "Yes, truly, this new and great work shall announce, like a flaming comet, Voltaire's arrival in Berlin. At the same moment in which the Berlinese see that you are at last amongst them, shall they acknowledge that you are worthy to be honored and worshipped. In four weeks, Voltaire, shall your new tragedy be given in my palace."

"Has your majesty, then, a French company, and such a one as may dare to represent my Catiline?"

"For the love of Voltaire will all my courtiers, and even my sister, become actors; and though a Cicero failed you in Paris, in Berlin we will surely find you one. Have we not Voltaire who can take that role. If no reliable director could be found in Paris, I give you permission to select from my court circle those you consider most talented and most capable as actors, and you can study their parts with them—I myself alone excepted. Ten years ago I wished to have your 'Death of Caesar' given at Rheinsberg, and I had selected a role; just then the Emperor of Germany died, and fate called me out upon the great theatre of the world, where I have since then tried to play my part worthily, and I must consecrate to this all my strength and ability. I can play no other part! The two roles might make a rare confusion, and strange results might follow should the King of Prussia of this morning be changed to the Cicero of the evening, utter a fulminating speech against tyrants, and call upon the noble Romans to defend their rights; while this same King of Prussia is a small tyrant, and his subjects are more like pitiful slaves than heroic Romans. I must, therefore, confine myself to the narrow boundaries of a spectator, and applaud you as heartily in your character of Cicero as I applaud you in that of the great Voltaire."

"And is this indeed your intention, sire? My poor tragedy lies in my writing-desk, seemingly dead; will you awaken it to life and light?"

"It shall be given in two months, and you shall conduct it."

Voltaire's countenance darkened; his gay smile disappeared, and lines of selfishness and covetousness clouded the brow of the great poet.

"In two months, sire!" said he, shaking his head. "I fear I shall not be here. I have only come to sun myself for a few happy days in your presence."

"And then?" said Frederick, interrupting him.

"Then I must fulfil one of the darling dreams of my whole life. I must go to Italy, to the holy city of Rome, and kneel upon the graves of Cicero and Caesar. I must see St. Peter's, the Venus de Medici, and the pope."

"You will never go to Rome," said Frederick. "The Holy Father will not have the happiness of converting the blasphemous Saul into the pious and believing Paul. You will remain in Berlin; if you do not yield willingly, I must compel you to yield. I will make you my subject; I will bind you with orders and titles; I will compel you to accept a salary from me; and then, should they seek to ravish you from me, I will have a right to withhold you from all the potentates of the world."

Voltaire's face was again radiant. "Ah! sire, no power or chains will be necessary to bind me here; your majesty's command alone would suffice."

"And your duty! My gentleman of the bedchamber dare not withdraw himself for a single day without my permission. I make you gentleman of the bedchamber. I lay the ribbon of my order, 'pour le merite,' around your neck, and that I may always have a rope around you, and make you completely my prisoner, I give you an apartment in my palace at Potsdam; and that you may not feel yourself a hermit, you will have every day six covers laid for your friends; and to mock you with the appearance of liberty, you shall have your own equipage and servants, who will obey you in all things with one exception—if you order your valet to pack up your effects, and your coachman to take the road to Paris, they will disobey."

Voltaire heard the words of the king with breathless attention. Sullen suspicion and discontent were written on his face. This did not, escape the king; he understood the cause, but he said nothing. Voltaire exhausted himself in words of joy and gratitude, but they had not the ring of truth, and the joy which his lips expressed found no echo in his face.

"I have but one other thing to add," said Frederick, at last. "Can your greatness pardon a poor earthworm, if he dare speak in your presence of so common and villanous a thing as money?"

Voltaire's eyes sparkled; the subject of conversation did not seem disagreeable to him.

"You have relinquished a pension of six thousand livres in France, It is but just that you receive full compensation. Your great spirit is certainly above all earthly considerations, but our fleshy existence has its rights. So long as you are with me, you shall not be troubled by even a shadow of privation. You will therefore receive a salary of five thousand thalers from me. Your lodging and your table cost you nothing, and I think you can be very comfortable."

Voltaire's heart bounded for joy, but he forced himself to seem calm and indifferent.

"Your majesty has forgotten an important matter," said he. "You have named lodging and food, but you say nothing of light and fire. I am an old man, and cannot produce them myself."

"Truly said—I find it quite in order that the great free-thinker and poet of this century is troubled for the light which should illuminate him. You shall have twelve pounds of wax-lights every month; I think this will be sufficient for your purposes. As for the other little necessities of life, have the goodness to apply to the castellan of the castle. On the first day of every month he will supply them regularly. The contract is made; you will remain with me?"

"I remain, sire!—not for the title, or the pension, or the order—I remain with you, because I love you. My heart offers up to you the dream of my life, my journey to Italy. Oh, I wish I could make greater, more dangerous sacrifices! I wish I could find a means to prove my love, my adoration, my worship!"

The king laid his hand softly on Voltaire's shoulder, and looked earnestly in his eyes.

"Be as good a man as you are a great poet. That is the most beautiful offering you can bring me."

"Ah! I see," said Voltaire, enraged; "some one has slandered me. Your majesty has opened your cars to my enemies, and already their hellish poison has reached your heart. As they cannot destroy Voltaire the poet, they seize upon Voltaire the man, and slander his character because they cannot obscure his fame. I will advance to meet them with an open visor and without a shield. From their place of ambush, with their poisoned arrows, let them slay me. It is better to die than to be suspected and contemned by my great and worshipped king."

"See, now, what curious creatures you poets are!" said Frederick; "always in wild tumult and agitation; either storming heaven or hell; contending with demons, or revelling with angels! You have no daily quiet, patience, and perseverance. If you see a man who tells you he is planting potatoes, you do not believe him—you convince yourself he is sowing dragons' teeth to raise an army to contend against you. If you meet one of your fellows with a particularly quiet aspect, you are sure you can read curses against you upon his lip. When one begs you to be good, you look upon it as an accusation. No, no, my poet! no one has poured the poison of slander into my ears—no one has accused you to me. I am, moreover, accustomed to form my own conclusions, and the opinions of others have but little weight with me."

"But your majesty is pleased to lend your ears to my enemies," said Voltaire, sullenly; "exactly those who attack me most virulently receive the highest honors at the hands of your majesty. You are as cruel with me as a beautiful and ravishing coquette. So soon as by a love-glance you have made me the happiest of men, you turn away with cold contempt, and smile alluringly upon my rivals. I have yet two dagger-strokes in my heart, which cause me death-agony. If your majesty would make me truly happy, you must cure the wounds with your own hands."

"I will, if it is possible," said the king, gravely. "Let us hear of what you complain."

"Sire, your majesty has made Freron your correspondent in Paris— Freron, my most bitter enemy, my irreconcilable adversary. But it is not because he is my foe that I entreat you to dismiss him; you will not think so pitifully of me as to suppose that this is the reason I entreat you to dismiss him from your service. My personal dislike will not make me blind to the worth of Freron as a writer. No, sire, Freron is not worthy of your favor; he is an openly dishonored scoundrel, who has committed more than one common fraud. You may imagine what an excitement it produced in Paris when it was known that you had honored this scamp with a position which should be filled by a man of wisdom and integrity. Freron is only my enemy because, in spite of all entreaties, I have closed my house upon him. I took this step for reasons which should have closed the doors of every respectable house against him. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.] Sire, I implore you, do not let the world believe for a single day longer that Freron is your correspondent. Dismiss him at once from your service."

The king did not reply for a few moments; he walked backward and forward several times, then stood quietly before Voltaire. The expression of his eye was stern.

"I sacrifice Freron to you," said he, "because I will deny you nothing on this, the day of your arrival; but I repeat to you what I said before, 'be not only a great poet, be also a good man.'"

Voltaire shook his head, sadly. "Sire," said he, "in your eyes I am not a great poet, only un soleil couchant. Remember Arnaud, my pupil, whom I sent to you!"

"Aha!" cried the king, laughing, "you have, then, read my little poem to Arnaud?"

"Sire, I have read it, and that was the second dagger-stroke which I received on this journey, to which my loving heart forced my weak and shrinking body; I felt that I must see you once more before I died. Yes, I have read this terrible poem, and the lines have burned into my heart these cruel words:"

'Deja sans etre temeraire, Prenant votre vol jusqu'aux cieux, Vous pouvez egaler Voltaire, Et pres de Virgile et d'Homere. Jouir de vos succes heureux, Deja l'Apollon de la France, S'achemine a sa decadence, Venez briller a votre tour, Elevez vous s'il brille encore; Ainsi le couchant d'un beau jour, Promet une plus belle aurore.' [Footnote: Supplement des Oeuvres Posthumes.]

"Yes," said the king, as Voltaire ceased declaiming, and stood in rather a tragic attitude before him—"yes, I confess that a sensitive nature like yours might find a thorn in these innocent rhymes. My only intention was to give to the little Arnaud a few roses which he might weave into a wreath of fame. It seems I fulfilled my purpose poorly; it was high time that Voltaire should come to teach me to make better verses. See, I confess my injustice, and I allow you to punish me by writing a poem against me, which shall be published as extensively as my little verse to Arnaud."

"Does your majesty promise me this little revenge in earnest?"

"I promise it; give me your poem as soon as it is ready; it shall be published in 'Formey's Journal.'"

"Sire, it is ready: hear it now. [Footnote: Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire.]

"'Quel diable de Marc Antoine! Et quelle malice est le votre, Vous egratinez d'une main Lorsque vous caressez de l'autre.'"

"Ah," said Frederick, "what a beautiful quatrain Monsieur Arouet has made."

"Arouet!" said Voltaire, astonished,

"Well, now, you would not surely wish me to believe that this little stinging, pitiful rhyme, was written by the great Voltaire. No, no! this is the work of the young Arouet, and we will have it published with his signature."

Voltaire fixed his great eyes for a moment angrily upon the handsome face of the king, then bowed his head and looked down thoughtfully. There was a pause, and his face assumed a noble expression—he was again the great poet.

"Sire," said he, softly, "I will not have this poem published. You are right, Voltaire does not acknowledge it. This poor verse was written by Arouet, or the 'old Adam,' who often strikes the poet Voltaire slyly in the back. But you, sire, who have already won five battles, and who find a few morning hours sufficient to govern a great kingdom with wisdom, consideration, and love; you, by one kindly glance of your eye, will be able to banish the old Adam, and call heavenly hymns of love and praise from the lips of Voltaire."

"I shall be content with hymns of love. I will spare you all eulogy," cried Frederick, giving his hand warmly to Voltaire.

At the close of the first day at Sans-Souci, the new gentleman of the bedchamber returned to Potsdam, adorned with the order "Pour le merite," and a written assurance from the king of a pension of five thousand thalers in his pocket.

Two richly-liveried servants received him at the gate of the palace; one of them held a silver candelabrum, in which five wax-lights were burning. Voltaire leaned, exhausted and groaning, upon the arm of the other, who almost carried him into his apartment. Voltaire ordered the servant to place the lights on the table, and to wait in the anteroom for further orders.

Scarcely had the servant left the room when Voltaire, who had thrown himself, as if perfectly exhausted, in the arm-chair, sprang up actively and hastened to the table upon which the candelabrum stood; raising himself on tiptoe, he blew out three of the lights.

"Two are enough," said he, with a grimace. "I am to receive twelve pounds of wax-lights a month. I will be very economical, and out of the proceeds of this self-denial I can realize a little pin-money for my niece, Denis." He took the candelabrum and entered his study.

It was curious to look upon this lonely, wrinkled, decrepit old man, in the richly-furnished but half-obscure room; the dull light illuminated his malicious but smiling face; here and there as he advanced it flashed upon the gilding, or was reflected in a mirror, while behind him the gloom of night seemed to have thrown an impenetrable veil.

Voltaire seated himself at his desk and wrote to his niece, Madame Denis: "I have bound myself with all legal form to the King of Prussia. My marriage with him is determined upon. Will it be happy? I do not know. I could no longer postpone the decisive yes. After coquetting for so many years, a wedding was the necessary consequence. How my heart beat at the altar! How could I have supposed, seven months ago, when we arranged our little house in Paris, that I should be to-day three hundred leagues from home in another man's house, and this other a ruler!" [Footnote: Oeuvres Completes, 301.]

At the same moment wrote Frederick, King of Prussia, to Algarotti: "Voltaire is here; he has of late, as you know, been guilty of an act unworthy of him. He deserves to be branded upon Parnassus. It is a shame that so base a soul should be united to so exalted a genius. Of all this, however, I shall take no notice; he is necessary to me in my study of the French language. One can learn beautiful things from an evil-doer. I must learn his French. I have nothing to do with his morals. He unites in himself the strangest opposites. The world worships his genius and despises his character." [Footnote: Oeuvres de Frederic le Grand.]



CHAPTER III.

THE CONFIDENCE-TABLE.

"And now, friends, let us be joyful, and forget all the cares and sorrows of the world," cried the king, with a ringing laugh; "raise your glasses and strike them merrily. Long life to mirth, to jest, to joy!"

The glasses were raised, and as they met they rang out cheerily; they were pressed to the lips and emptied at a draught; the guests then seated themselves silently at the table. Frederick glanced at the circle of his friends who sat with him at the round table; his eyes dwelt searchingly upon every laughing face, then turned to the garden of Sans-Souci, which sent its perfumed breath, its song of birds, its evening breeze, through the open doors and windows, while the moon, rising in cloudless majesty, shone down upon them and rivalled with her silver rays the myriads of wax-lights which glittered in the crystal chandeliers.

"This is a glorious evening," said the king, "and we will enjoy it gloriously."

He ordered the servants to close the doors, place the dessert and champagne upon the table, and leave the room. Noiselessly and silently this command was fulfilled. Frederick then greeted each one of his guests with a kindly nod.

"Welcome, thrice welcome are you all!" said he. "I have longed to have you all together, and now, at last, you are here. There sits Voltaire, whose divine Emile was delivered first of a book, then of a child, and then released from life before he was free to come to Berlin. There is Algarotti, the swan of Italy, who spreads his wings and would gladly fly to the land of oranges and myrtles. There is La Mettrie, who only remains here because he is convinced that my Cape wine is pure, and my pates de foie gras truly from Strasbourg. There is D'Argens, who sought safety in Prussia because in every other land in Europe there are sweethearts waiting and sighing for him, to whom he has sworn a thousand oaths of constancy. There is Bastiani, who only remains with us while the Silesian dames, who have frankly confessed their sins to him and been absolved, find time and opportunity to commit other peccadilloes, which they will do zealously, in order to confess them once more to the handsome Abbe Bastiani. And lastly, there is my Lord Marshal, the noblest and best of all, whose presence we owe to the firmness of his political principles and the misfortunes of the house of Stuart."

"And there is the Solomon of the North," cried Voltaire—"there is Frederick, the youngest of us all, and the wisest—the philosopher of Sans-Souci. There sits Apollo, son of the gods, who has descended from Olympus to be our king."

"Let us not speak of kings," said Frederick. "When the sun goes down there is no king at Sans-Souci; he leaves the house and retires into another castle, God only knows where. We are all equal and wholly sans gene. At this table, there are no distinctions; we are seven friends, who laugh and chat freely with each other; or, if you prefer it, seven wise men."

"This is then the Confidence-Table," said Voltaire, "of which D'Argens has so often spoken to me, and which has seemed to me like the Round-Table of King Arthur. Long live the Confidence-Table!"

"It shall live," cried the king, "and we will each one honor this, our first sitting, by showing our confidence in each other. Every one shall relate something piquant and strange of his past life, some lively anecdote, or some sweet little mystery which we dare trust to our friends, but not to our wives. The oldest begins first."

"I am afraid I am that," said Voltaire, "but your majesty must confess that my heart has neither white hair nor wrinkles. Old age is a terrible old woman who slides quietly, grinning and threatening, behind every man, and watches the moment when she dares lay upon him the mask of weary years through which he has lived and suffered. She has, alas! fastened her wrinkled mask upon my face, but my heart is young and green, and if the women were not so short- sighted as to look only upon my outward visage, if they would condescend to look within, they would no longer call me the old Voltaire, but would love and adore me, even as they did in my youth."

"Listen well, friends, he will no doubt tell us of some duchess who placed him upon an altar and bowed down and worshipped him."

"No, sire, I will tell you of an injury, the bitterest I ever experienced, and which I can never forget."

"As if he had ever forgotten an injury, unless he had revenged it threefold!" cried D'Argens.

"And chopped up his enemy for pastry and eaten him," said La Mettrie.

"Truly, if I should eat all my enemies, I should suffer from an everlasting indigestion, and, in my despair, I might fly to La Mettrie for help. It is well known that when you suffer from incurable diseases, you seek, at last, counsel of the quack."

"You forget that La Mettrie is a regular physician," said the king, with seeming earnestness.

"On the contrary, he remembered it well," said La Mettrie, smiling. "The best physician is the greatest quack, or the most active grave- digger, if you prefer it."

"Silence!" said the king. "Voltaire has the floor; he will tell us of the greatest offence he ever received. Give attention."

"Alas! my heart is sad, sire; of all other pain, the pain of looking back into the past is the most bitter. I see myself again a young man, the Arouet to whom Ninon de l'Enclos gave her library and a pension, and who was confined for twenty years to the Bastile because he loved God and the king too little, and the charming Marquise de Villiers and some other ladies of the court too much. Besides these exalted ladies, there was a beautiful young maiden whom I loved—perhaps because she had one quality which I had never remarked in the possession of my more noble mistresses—she was innocent! Ah, friends, you should have seen Phillis, and you would have confessed that no rose-bud was lovelier, no lily purer, than she. Phillis was the daughter of a gypsy and a mouse-catcher, and danced on the tight-rope in the city-gardens."

"Ah, it appears to me the goddess of innocence dances always upon the tight-rope in this world," said the king. "I should not be surprised to hear that even your little Phillis had a fall."

"Sire, she fell, but in my arms; and we swore eternal love and constancy. You all know from experience the quality and fate of such oaths; they are the kindling-wood upon which the fire of love is sustained; but, alas, kindling and fire soon burnt out! Who is responsible? Our fire burned long; but, think you my Phillis, whom I had removed from the tight-rope, and exalted to a dancer upon the stage, was so innocent and naive, as to believe that our love must at last be crowned with marriage! I, however, was a republican, and feared all crowns. I declared that Ninon de l'Enclos had made me swear never to marry, lest my grandchildren should fall in love with me, as hers had done with her."

"Precaution is praiseworthy," said La Mettrie. "The devil's grandmother had also a husband, and her grandsons might have fallen in love with her."

"Phillis did not take me for the devil's grandfather, but for the devil himself. She cried, and shrieked, and cast my oaths of constancy in my teeth. I did not die of remorse, nor she of love, and to prove her constancy, she married a rich Duke de Ventadour."

"And you, no doubt, gave away the bride, and swore you had never known a purer woman!"

"No, sire, I was at that time again in the Bastile, and left it only as an exile from France. When at last I was allowed to return to Paris, I sought out my Duchess de Ventadour, my Phillis of former times. I found her a distinguished lady; she had forgotten the follies of her youth; had forgotten her father, the rope-dancer; her mother, the mouse-catcher. She had no remembrance of the young Arouet, to whom she had sworn to say only 'tu' and 'toi.' Now she was grave and dignified, and 'Vous, monsieur,' was on her fair lip. Thanks to the heraldry office, she had become the daughter of a distinguished Spaniard, blessed with at least seven ancestors. Phillis gave good dinners, had good wine, and the world overlooked her somewhat obscure lineage. She was the acknowledged and respected Duchess Ventadour. She was still beautiful, but quite deaf; consequently her voice was loud and coarse, when she believed herself to be whispering. She invited me to read some selections from my new work in her saloon, and I was weak enough to accept the invitation. I had just completed my 'Brutus,' and burned with ambition to receive the applause of the Parisiennes. I commenced to read aloud my tragedy of 'Brutus' in the saloon of the duchess, surrounded by a circle of distinguished nobles, eminent in knowledge and art. I was listened to in breathless attention. In the deep silence which surrounded me, in the glowing eyes of my audience, in the murmurs of applause which greeted me, I saw that I was still Voltaire, and that the hangman's hands, which had burned my 'Lettres Philosophiques,' had not destroyed my fame or extinguished my genius. While I read, a servant entered upon tiptoe, to rekindle the fire. The Duchess Ventadour sat near the chimney. She whispered, or thought she whispered, to her servant. I read a little louder to drown her words. I was in the midst of one of the grandest scenes of my tragedy. My own heart trembled with emotion. Here and there I saw eyes, which were not wont to weep, filled with tears, and heard sighs from trembling lips, accustomed only to laughter and smiles. And now I came to the soliloquy of Brutus. He was resolving whether he would sacrifice his son's life to his fatherland. There was a solemn pause, and now, in the midst of the profound silence, the Duchess Ventadour in a shrill voice, which she believed to be inaudible, said to her servant: 'Do not fail to serve mustard with the pig's head!'"

A peal of laughter interrupted Voltaire, in which he reluctantly joined, being completely carried away by the general mirth.

"That was indeed very piquant, and I think you must have been greatly encouraged."

"Did you eat of the pig's head, or were your teeth on edge?"

"No, they were sharp enough to bite, and I bit! In my first rage I closed my book, and cried out: 'Madame—! Well! as you have a pig's head, you do not require that Brutus should offer up the head of his son!' I was on the point of leaving the room, but the poor duchess, who was just beginning to comprehend her unfortunate interruption, hastened after me, and entreated me so earnestly to remain and read further, that I consented. I remained and read, but not from 'Brutus.' My rage made me, for the moment, an improvisator. Seated near to the duchess, surrounded by the proud and hypocritical nobles, who acknowledged Phillis only because she had a fine house and gave good dinners, I improvised a poem which recalled to the grand duchess and her satellites the early days of the fair Phillis, and brought the laugh on my side. My poem was called 'Le tu et le vous.' Now, gentlemen, this is the story of my 'Brutus' and the pig's head,"

"I acknowledge that it is a good story. It will be difficult for you, D'Argens, to relate so good a one," said the king.

"I dare not make the attempt, sire. Voltaire was ever the child of good fortune, and his life and adventures have been extraordinary, while I was near sharing the common fate of younger sons. I was destined for the priesthood."

"That's a droll idea, indeed!" said Frederick. "D'Argens, who believes in nothing, intended for a priest! How did you escape this danger?"

"Through the example of my dear brother, who was of a passionate piety, and became in the school of the Jesuits so complete a fanatic and bigot that he thundered out his fierce tirades against all earthly joys and pastimes, no matter how innocent they were. To resemble the holy Xavier and the sanctified and childlike Alois Gonzago, was his highest ideal. In the extremity of his piety and prudery he slipped into the art-gallery of our eldest brother and destroyed Titian's most splendid paintings and the glorious statues of the olden time. He gloried in this act, and called it a holy offering to virtue. He could not understand that it was vandalism. Our family had serious fears for the intellect of this poor young saint, maddened by the fanaticism of the Jesuits. They sought counsel of the oldest and wisest of our house, the Bishop of Bannes. After thinking awhile, the bishop said: 'I will soon cure the young man of this folly; I will make him a priest.'"

"Truly, your uncle, the bishop, was a wise man; he drove out folly with folly. He knew well that no one had less reverence for the churches than those who have built them, and are their priests."

"That was the opinion of my very worthy uncle. He said, with a sly laugh: 'When he has heard a few confessions, he will understand the ways of the world better!' The bishop was right. My brother was consecrated. In a short time he became very tolerant and considerate, as a man and as a father confessor."

"But you have not told us, marquis, how the fanaticism of your brother liberated you from the tonsure?" said the king.

"My father found I would commence my priestly life with as much intolerance as my brother had done. He therefore proposed to me to consecrate myself to the world, and, instead of praying in the church, to fight for the cross. The thought pleased me, and I became a Knight of Malta."

"Your first deed of arms was, without doubt, to seat yourself and write your 'Lettres Juives,'" said the king; "those inspiring letters in which the knight of the cross mocks at Christianity and casts his glove as a challenge to revealed religion."

"No, sire, I began my knightly course by entering the land of heathen and idolaters, to see if a man could be truly happy and contented in a land where there was neither Messiah nor crucifix—I went to Turkey."

"But you carried your talisman with you?" said the Abbe Bastiani— "you wore the cross upon your mantle?"

"A remark worthy of our pious abbe," said Frederick; "no one knows better the protecting power of the cross than the priest who founded it. Tell us, marquis, did your talisman protect you? Did you become an apostate to the true faith?"

"Sire, I wished first to see their temples and their mode of worship, before I decided whether I would be an unbelieving believer or a believing unbeliever."

"I think," said Voltaire, "you have never been a believer, or made a convert; you have made nothing but debts."

"That is, perhaps, because I am not a great writer, and do not understand usury and speculation," said D'Argens, quietly. "Besides, no courtesan made me her heir, and no mistress obtained me a pension!"

"Look now," said the king, "our good marquis is learning from you, Voltaire; he is learning to scratch and bite."

"Yes," said Voltaire; "there are creatures whom all men imitate, even in their vile passions and habits; perhaps they take them for virtues."

The face of the marquis was suffused; he rose angrily, and was about to answer, but the king laid his hand upon his arm. "Do not reply to him; you know that our great poet changes himself sometimes into a wicked tiger, and does not understand the courtly language of men. Do not regard him, but go on with your story."

The king—drew back his hand suddenly, and, seemingly by accident, touched the silver salt-cellar; it fell and scattered the salt upon the table. The marquis uttered a light cry, and turned pale.

"Alas!" cried the king, with well-affected horror, "what a misfortune! Quick, quick, my friends! let us use an antidote against the wiles of the demons, which our good marquis maintains springs always from an overturned salt-cellar. Quick, quick! take each of you a pinch of salt, and throw it upon the burners of the chandeliers; listen how it crackles and splutters! These are the evil spirits in hell-fire, are they not, marquis? Now let each one take another pinch, and throw it, laughing merrily, over the left shoulder. You, Voltaire, take the largest portion, and cast it from you; I think you have always too much salt, and your most beautiful poems are thereby made unpalatable."

"Ah, sire, you speak of the salt of my wit. No one remembers that the tears which have bathed my face have fallen upon my lips, and become crystallized into biting sarcasms. Only the wretched and sorely tried are sharp of wit and bitter of speech."

"Not so," said La Mettrie; "these things are the consequence of bad digestion. This machine is not acted upon by what you poets call spirit, and I call brain; it reacts upon itself. When a man is melancholy, it comes from his stomach. To be gay and cheery, to have your spirits clear and fresh, you have nothing more to do than to eat heartily and have a good digestion. Moliere could not have written such glorious comedies if he had fed upon sour krout and old peas, instead of the woodcock, grouse, and truffles which fell to him from King Louis's table. Man is only a machine, nothing more."

"La Mettrie, I will give you to-morrow nothing but grouse and truffles to eat: woe to you, then, if the day after you do not write me just such a comedy as Moliere's! But we entirely forget that the marquis owes us the conclusion of his story; we left him a Knight of Malta, and we cannot abandon him in this position; that would be to condemn him to piety and virtue. Go on, dear marquis, we have thrown the salt and banished the demons—go on, then, with your history."

"Well," said the marquis, "to relate it is less dangerous than to live through it. I must confess, however, that the perils of life have also their charms. I wished, as I had the honor to say to you, to witness a religious service in the great mosque at Constantinople, and by my prayers, supported by a handful of gold pieces, I succeeded in convincing the Turk, who had the care of the key to the superb Sophia, that it was not an unpardonable sin to allow an unbelieving Christian to witness the holy worship of an unbelieving Mussulman. Indeed, he risked nothing but the bastinado; while I, if discovered, would be given over to the hangman, and could only escape my fate by becoming a Mussulman."

"What an earnest and profitable Christian Holy Mother Church would thus have lost in the author of Les Lettres Juives!" said Frederick, laughing.

"But what an exquisite harem the city of Constantinople would have won!" cried Voltaire.

"What a happiness for you, my Lord Marshal, that your beautiful Mohammedan was not then born; the marquis would without doubt have bought her from you!"

"If Zuleima will allow herself to be bought, there will be nothing to pay," said Lord Marshal, with a soft smile.

"You are right, my lord," said the marquis, with a meaning side glance at Voltaire, "you are right; nothing is more despicable than the friendship which can be purchased."

"You succeeded, however, in bribing the good Mussulman," said Algarotti, "and enjoyed the unheard-of happiness of witnessing their worship."

"Yes, the night before a grand fete, my Turk led me to the mosque, and hid me behind a great picture which was placed before one of the doors of the tribune. This was seemingly a safe hiding-place. The tribune was not used, and years had passed since the door had been opened. It lay, too, upon the southern side of the mosque, and you know that the worshippers of Mohammed must ever turn their faces toward Mecca, that is, to the morning sun; I was sure, therefore, that none of these pious unbelievers would ever look toward me. From my concealment I could with entire comfort observe all that passed; but I made my Turk most unhappy in the eagerness of my curiosity. I sometimes stepped from behind my picture, and leaned a little over the railing. My poor Mussulman entreated me with such a piteous mien, and pointed to the soles of his feet with such anguish, that I was forced to take pity on him and withdraw into my concealment. But at last, in spite of the solemnities, and my own ardent piety, the animal was roused within and overcame me. I was hungry! and as I had expected this result, I had placed a good bottle of wine and some ham and fresh bread in my pocket. I now took them out, spread my treasures upon the floor, and began to breakfast. The Turk looked at me with horror, and he would not have been surprised if the roof of the holy mosque had fallen upon the Christian hound who dared to desecrate it by drinking wine and eating ham within its precincts, both of which were strictly forbidden by the prophet. But the roof did not fall, not even when I forced my Mussulman to eat ham and drink wine with me, by threatening to show myself openly if he refused. He commenced his unholy meal with dark frowns and threatening glances, ever looking up, as if he feared the sword of the prophet would cleave him asunder. Soon, however, he familiarized himself with his sin, and forgot the holy ceremonies which were being solemnized. When the service was over, and all others had left the mosque, he prayed me to wait yet a little longer, and as the best of friends, we finished the rest of my bacon and drank the last drop of my wine to the health of the prophet, laughing merrily over the dangers we had escaped. As at last we were about to separate, my good Turk was sad and thoughtful, and he confessed to me that he had the most glowing desire to become a Christian. The bacon and wine had refreshed him marvellously, and he was enthusiastic for a religion which offered such glorious food, not only for the soul, but for the body. I was too good a Christian not to encourage his holy desires. I took him into my service, and when we had left Turkey, and found ourselves on Christian soil, my Mussulman gratified the thirst of his soul, and became a son of Holy Mother Church, and felt no remorse of conscience in eating ham and drinking wine. So my visit to the holy mosque was rich in blessed consequences; it saved a soul, and my wine and my ham plucked a man from the hell-fire of unbelief. That is, I believe, the only time I ever succeeded in making a proselyte."

"The salvation of that soul will free you from condemnation and insure your own eternal happiness. When you come to die, marquis, you dare say, 'I have not lived in vain, I have won a soul to heaven.'"

"Provided," said Voltaire, "that the bacon with which you converted the Turk was not part of one of the beasts into which the devils were cast, as is written in the Holy Scriptures. If this was so, then the newly-baked Christian has certainly eaten of everlasting damnation."

"Let us hope that this is not so," said Frederick; "and now, my Lord Marshal, it is your turn to give us a piquant anecdote; or, if you prefer it, an heroic deed from your life, so rich in virtue, magnanimity, truth, and constancy. Ah, messieurs, let us now be thoughtful, cast down our eyes, and exalt our hearts. A virtuous man is about to speak: truly virtue is a holy goddess loved by few, to whom few altars are erected, and who has few priests in her service. My Lord Marshal is consecrated to her altar; you may well believe this when I assure you of it—I, who have been so often deceived, and often tempted to believe no longer in the existence of virtue. My noble Keith has forced me to be credulous. This faith comforts me, and I thank him."

With a glance of inexpressible love he gave his hand to his friend, who pressed it to his breast. The faces of all present were grave, almost stern. The words of the king were a reproach, and they felt wounded. Frederick thought not of them; he looked alone upon the noble, handsome face of Lord Marshal, not remembering that the love and consideration manifested for him might excite the envy and jealousy of his other friends.

"Now, my lord, will you commence your history, or are we too impure and sinful to listen to any of the holy mysteries of your pure life?"

"Ah, sire, there are no mysteries in my simple life; it lies like an open book before the eyes of my king, and, indeed, to all the world."

"In that pure book I am sure that all can learn wisdom and experience," said Frederick. "It is a book of rarest value, in which every nobleman can learn how to be faithful to his king in dire misfortune and to the gates of death. Ah, my lord, there are few men like yourself, who can count it as imperishable fame to have been condemned to the scaffold. The Pretender must, indeed, be a most noble prince, as you were willing to give your life for him."

"He was my rightful king and lord, and I owed him allegiance. That I was condemned for him, and pardoned, and banished from England, I cannot now consider a misfortune, as I have thereby enjoyed the great happiness of being near your majesty. But you must not think too highly of my constancy to 'the Pretender;' it was not pure loyalty, and if I carelessly and rashly cast my life upon a wild chance, it was because the world had but little value for me. In the despair and anguish of my heart I should have called Death a welcome friend. Had I been happier I should have been less brave."

"And will you tell us, my lord, why you were unhappy?"

"Sire, mine is a simple little history, such as is daily acted out in this weary world. We are all, however, proud to think that none have suffered as we have done. There are many living hearts covered as with a gravestone, under which every earthly happiness is shrouded, but the world is ignorant, and goes laughing by. My heart has bled in secret, and my happiness is a remembrance; my life once promised to be bright and clear as the golden morning sun. The future beckoned to me with a thousand glorious promises and greeted me with winning, magic smiles. I saw a young, lovely, innocent, modest maiden, like a spring rose, with heaven's dew still hanging untouched upon its soft leaves. I saw and loved; it seemed to me God had sent me in her His most wondrous revelation. I loved, I worshipped her. She was the daughter of a distinguished French noble. I went to Paris, a young and modest man, highly commended to many influential and powerful families of the court. We met daily; at first with wonder and surprise; then, with deep emotion, we heard each other's voices without daring to speak together; and then, at last, I no longer dared to utter a word in her presence, because my voice trembled and I could not control it. One day, as we sat silently next each other in a large assembly, I murmured in low, broken tones: 'If I dared to love you, would you forgive me?' She did not look up, but she said, 'I should be happy.' We then sank again into our accustomed silence, only looking from time to time into each other's happy eyes. This lasted six weeks, six weeks of silent but inexpressible happiness. At last I overcame my timidity and made known the sweet mystery of my love. I demanded the hand of my Victoire from her father; he gave a cheerful consent, and led me to my beloved. I pressed her to my heart, drunk with excess of joy. At this moment her grandmother entered with a stern face and scornful glance. She asked if I was a Protestant. This fearful question waked me from my dream of bliss. In the rapture of the last few months I had thought of nothing but my love. Love had become my religion, and I needed no other influence to lead me to worship God. But this, alas, was not sufficient! I declared myself a Protestant. Victoire uttered a cry of anguish, and sank insensible into her father's arms. Two days afterward I left France. Victoire would not see me, and refused my hand. I returned to England, broken-hearted, desperate, almost insane. In this delirium of grief I joined 'the Pretender,' and undertook for him and his cause the wildest and most dangerous adventures, which ended, at last, in my being captured and condemned to the block. This, your majesty, was the only love of my life. You see I had, indeed, but little to relate."

Frederick said nothing, and no one dared to break the silence. Even Voltaire repressed the malicious jest which played upon his lip, and was forced to content himself with a mocking smile.

"What were the words that your father spoke when he sent you forth as a man into the world? I think you once repeated them to me," said Frederick.

"Quand vos yeux, en naissant, s'ouvraient a la lumiere, Chacun vous souriait, mon fils, et vous pleuriez. Vivez si bien, qu'un jour, a votre derniere heure, Chacun verse des pleurs, et qu'on vous voie sourire."

"You have fulfilled your father's wish," said the king. "You have so lived, that you can smile when all others are weeping for you, and no man who has loved can forget you. I am sure your Victoire will never forget you. Have you not seen her since that first parting?"

"Yes, sire, I have seen her once again, as I came to Prussia, after being banished forever from England. Ah, sire, that was a happy meeting after twenty years of separation. The pain and grief of love were over, but the love remained. We confessed this to each other. In the beginning there was suffering and sorrow, then a sweet, soft remembrance of our love, for we had never ceased to think upon each other. It seems that to love faithfully and eternally it is only necessary to love truly and honorably, and then to separate. Custom and daily meeting cannot then brush the bloom from love's light wings; its source is in heaven, and it returns to the skies and shines forever and inextinguishable a star over our heads. When I looked again. upon Victoire she had been a long time married, and to the world she had, perhaps, ceased to be beautiful. To me she will be ever lovely; and as she looked upon me it seemed to me that the clouds and shadows had been lifted from my life, and my sun was shining clear. But, sire, all this has no interest for you. How tenderly I loved Victoire you will know, when I tell you that the only poem my unpoetical brain has ever produced was written for her."

"Let us hear it, my lord," said the king.

"If your majesty commands it, and Voltaire will forgive it," said Lord Marshal.

"I forgive it, my lord," cried Voltaire. "Since I listened to you I live in a land of wonders and soft enchantments, whose existence I have never even guessed, and upon whose blooming, perfumed beauty I scarcely dare open my unholy eyes. The fairy tales of my dreamy youth seem now to be true, and I hear a language which we, poor sons of France, living under the regency of the Duke of Orleans, have no knowledge of. I entreat you, my lord, let us hear your poem."

Lord Marshal bowed, and, leaning back in his chair, in a full rich voice, he recited the following verses:

"'Un trait lance par caprice M'atteignit dans mon printemps; J'en porte la cicatrice Encore, sous mes cheveux blancs. Craignez les maux qu'amour cause, Et plaignez un insense Qui n'a point cueilli la rose, Et qui l'epine a blesse.' [Footnote: Memoires de la Marquise de Crequi.]

"And now," said Lord Marshal rapidly, wishing to interrupt all praise and all remark as to his poem; "I have yet a confession to make, and if you have not laughed over my verses, you will surely laugh at what I now state. Out of love for my lost mistress, I became a Catholic. I thought that the faith, to which my Victoire offered up her love, must be the true religion in which all love was grounded. I wished to be hers in spirit, in life, and in death. In spirit, in truth, I am a Catholic; and now, gentlemen, you may laugh."

"Sublime!" whispered Voltaire.

"No one will smile," said the king, sternly. "Joy and peace to him who is a believer, and can lay his heart upon the cross, and feel strengthened and supported by it. He will not wander in strange and forbidden paths, as we poor, short-sighted mortals often do. Will you tell us the name of your beloved mistress, or is that a secret?"

"Sire, our love was pure and innocent; we dare avow it to the whole world. My beloved's name was Victoire de Froulay; she is now Marquise de Crequi."

"Ah, the Marquise de Crequi!" said Voltaire, with animation: "one of the wittiest and most celebrated women of Paris."

"She is still living?" said the king, thoughtfully. "would you like to meet her again, my lord?"

"Yes, your majesty, for one hour, to say to her that I am a Catholic, and that we shall meet in heaven!"

"I will send you as ambassador to Paris, my lord, and you shall bear the marquise my greetings." [Footnote: Lord Marshal went to Paris, as an ambassador from Prussia, in 1751.]

"Your majesty will thus be acting an epigram for George of England," said Voltaire, laughing. "Two of his noblest rebels will be cementing the friendship of France and Prussia. Lord Tyrconnel, the Irishman, is ambassador from France to Prussia, and my Lord Marshal Keith is to be ambassador from Prussia to France. All, my lord! how will the noble marquise rejoice when her faithful knight shall introduce to her his most beautiful possession—the young and lovely Mohammedan Zuleima! How happy will Zuleima be when you point out to her the woman who loved you so fondly! She will then know, my lord, that you also once had a heart, and have been beloved by a woman."

"I will present my little Zuleima to the marquise," said Lord Marshal; "and, when I tell her that she was a bequest of my dear brother, who, at the storming of Oschakow, where he commanded as field-marshal, rescued her from the flames, she will find it just and kind that I gave the poor orphan a home and a father. I wish first, however, to give Zuleima a husband, if your majesty will allow it. The Tartar Ivan, my chamberlain, loves Zuleima, and she shall be his wife if your majesty consents."