"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."

"By all means," said Frederick; "but I fear it will be difficult to

have this marriage solemnized in Berlin. Your Tartar, I believe, has

the honor to be heathen."

"Sire, he is, in faith, a Persian."

"A fire-worshipper, then," said Frederick. "Well, I propose that

Voltaire shall bless this marriage; where fire is worshipped as a

god, Voltaire, the man of fire and flame, may well be priest."

"Ah, sire, I believe we are all Persians; surely we all worship the

light, and turn aside from darkness. You are to us the god Ormuzd,

from whom all light proceeds; and every priest is for us as Ahriman,

the god of darkness. Be gracious to me, then, your majesty, and do

not call upon me to play the role of priest even in jest. But why

does this happy son of the heathen require a priest? Is not the

sungod Ormuzd himself present? With your majesty's permission, we

will place the loving pair upon the upper terrace of Sans-Souci,

where they will be baptized in holy fire by the clear rays of the

mid-day sun. Then the divine Marianna, Cochois, and Denys will

perform some mystical dance, and so the marriage will be solemnized

according to Persian rites and ceremonies."

"And then, I dare hope your majesty will give a splendid wedding-

feast, where costly wines and rich and rare viands will not fail

us," said La Mettrie.

"Look, now, how his eyes sparkle with anticipated delights!" cried

the king. "La Mettrie would consent to wed every woman in the world

if he could thereby spend his whole life in one continuous wedding-

feast; but listen, sir, before you eat again, you have a story to

relate. Discharge this duty at once, and give us a piquant anecdote

from your gay life."

CHAPTER IV.

THE CONFIDENTIAL DINNER.

"Your majesty desires a piquant anecdote out of my own life," said

La Mettrie. "Is there any thing on earth more piquant than a

truffle-pie? Can any thing deserve more ardent praise, and fonder,

sweeter remembrance, than this beautiful revelation of man's genius?

Yes, sire, a successful truffle-pie is a sort of revealed religion,

and I am its devout, consecrated priest! One day I relinquished, for

the love of it, a considerable fortune, a handsome house, and a very

pretty bride, and I confess that even now a truffle-pie has more

irresistible charms for me than any bride, even though richly

endowed."

"And was there ever a father mad enough to give his daughter to the

'homme machine?'" said the king

"Sire, I had just then written my 'Penelope.' Monsieur van Swiet, of

Leyden, a poor invalid, who had been for weeks confined to his bed

by a cold, read it, and laughed so heartily over the mockery and

derision at the gentlemen doctors, that he fell into a profuse

perspiration--a result which neither the art of the physicians nor

the prayers of the priests had been able to accomplish. The

stiffness in his limbs was healed; in fact, he was restored to

health! His first excursion was to see me, and he implored me to

suggest a mode by which he could manifest his gratitude. 'Send me

every day a truffle-pie and a bottle of Hungarian wine,' I replied.

Swiet was greatly amused. 'I have something better than a truffle-

pie,' said he. 'I have a daughter who will inherit all my fortune.

You are not rich in ducats, but largely endowed with wit. I wish

that my grandchildren, who will be immensely wealthy, may have a

father who will endow them richly with intellect. Wed my daughter,

and present me with a grandson exactly like yourself.' I accepted

this proposition, and promised the good Van Swiet to become his son-

in-law in eight days; to dwell with him in his house, and to cheer

and enliven him daily for a few hours after dinner, with merry,

witty conversation, that his liver might be kept in motion, and his

digestion improved."

"Just think of this tender Hollander, this disinterested father, who

selects a husband for his daughter in order to improve his

digestion!"

"Did you not see your bride before the wedding? Perhaps she was a

changeling, whom the father wished to get rid of in some respectable

manner, and therefore gave her to you."

"I saw my bride, sire, and indeed Esther was a lovely girl, who had

but one fault--she did not love me. She had the naivete to tell me

so, and indeed to confess that she ardently loved another, a poor

clerk of her father's, who, when their love was discovered, a short

time before, had been turned out of the house. They loved each other

none the less glowingly for all this. I shrugged my shoulders, and

recalled the wish of her father, and my promise to him. But when the

little Esther implored me to refuse her hand, and plead with her

father for her beloved, I laughed and jested no longer, but began to

look at the thing gravely. I did go to her father, and informed him

of all that had passed. He listened to me quietly, and then asked

me, with a fearful grimace, if I preferred prison fare to truffle-

pie, every day, at my own table. You can imagine that I did not

hesitate in my choice.

"'Well, then,' said my good Swiet, 'if you do not wed my daughter, I

will withdraw my protecting hand from you, and your enemies will

find a means to cast you into prison. A new book, "L'Homme Machine,"

has just appeared, and every man swears it is your production,

though your name is not affixed to the title-page. The whole city,

not only the priests, but the worldlings, are enraged over this

book. They declare it is a monster of unbelief and materialism. If,

in spite of all this, I accept you as my son-in-law, it is because I

wish to show the world that I despise it, and am not in the

slightest degree influenced by its prejudices and opinions, but am a

bold, independent, freethinker. Decide, then! Will you marry my

daughter and eat truffle-pie daily, or will you be cast into

prison?'

"'I will marry your daughter! I swear that in eight days she shall

be my wife!'

"Herr van Swiet embraced me warmly, and commenced his preparations

for the wedding immediately. Esther, however, my bride, never spoke

to me; never seemed to see me. Her eyes were swollen, and she was

half-blind from weeping. Once we met alone in the saloon. She

hastened to leave it; but, as she passed by me, she raised her arms

to heaven, then extended them threateningly toward me. 'You are a

cruel and bad man. You will sacrifice a human soul to your greed and

your irresistible and inordinate desires! If God is just, you will

die of a truffle-pie! I say not that you will yield up your spirit,

for you have none! You will, you must die like a beast--from beastly

gluttony!'"

"The maiden possessed the wisdom of a sibyl," said the king, "and I

fear she has prophesied correctly as to your sad future. HATE has

sometimes the gift of prophecy, and sees the future clearly, while

Love is blind. It appears to me your Esther did not suffer from the

passion of love."

"No, sire, she hated me. But her lover, the young Mieritz, did not

share this dislike. He seemed warmly attached to me; was my

inseparable companion; embraced me with tears, and forgave me for

robbing him of his beloved, declaring that I was more worthy of her

than himself. He went so far in his manifestations of friendship as

to invite me to breakfast on the morning of my wedding-day, at which

time he wished to present me with something sumptuous he had brought

from Amsterdam. I accepted the invitation, and as the wedding-

ceremony was to take place at twelve o'clock, in the cathedral, we

were compelled to breakfast at eleven. I was content. I thought I

could better support the wearisome ceremony if sustained by the fond

remembrance of the luxurious meal I had just enjoyed. Our breakfast

began punctually at eleven, and I assure your majesty it was a rare

and costly feast. My young friend Mieritz declared, however, that

the dish which crowned the feast was yet to come. At last he stepped

to the kitchen himself to bring this jewel of his breakfast. With a

mysterious smile he quickly returned, bringing upon a silver dish a

smoking pie. A delicious fragrance immediately pervaded the whole

room--a fragrance which then recalled the hour most rich in blessing

of my whole life. Beside myself--filled with prophetic expectation--

I rushed forward and raised the top crust of the pie. Yes, it was

there!--it met my ravished gaze!--the pie which I had only eaten

once, at the table of the Duke de Grammont! Alas! I lost the good

duke at the battle of Fontenoy, and the great mystery of this pasty

went down with him into the hero's grave. And now that it was

exhumed, it surrounded me with its costly aroma; it smiled upon me

with glistening lips and voluptuous eyes. I snatched the dish from

the hands of my friend, and placed it before me on the table. At

this moment the clock struck twelve.

"'Miserable wretch!' I cried, 'you bring me this pie, and this is

the hour of my marriage!'

"'Well,' said Mieritz, with the cool phlegm of a Hollander, 'let us

go first to the wedding, and then this pasty can be warmed up.'

"'Warmed up!' roared I; 'warm up this pie, whose delicious odor has

already brought my nose into its magic circle! Can you believe I

would outlive such a vandalism, that I would consent to such

sacrilege? To warm a pie!--it is to rob the blossom of its

fragrance, the butterfly of the purple and azure of its wings,

beauty of its innocence, the golden day of its glory. No, I will

never be guilty of such deadly crime! This pie THIRSTS to be eaten!

I will, therefore, eat it!'

"I ate it, sire, and it overpowered me with heavenly rapture. I was

like the opium-eater, wrapped in elysium, carried into the heaven of

heavens. All the wonders of creation were combined in this heavenly

food, which I thrust into my mouth devoutly, and trembling with

gladness. It was not necessary for Mieritz to tell me that this pie

was made of Indian birds'-nests, and truffles from Perigord. I knew

it--I felt it! This wonder of India had unveiled my enraptured eyes!

A new world was opened before me! I ate, and I was blessed!

"What was it to me that messenger after messenger came to summon me,

to inform me that the priest stood before the altar; that my young

bride and her father and a crowd of relations awaited me with

impatience? I cried back to them: 'Go! be off with you! Let them

wait till the judgment-day! I will not rise from this seat till this

dish is empty!' I ate on, and while eating my intellect was clearer,

sharper, more profound than ever before! I rejoiced over this

conviction. Was it not a conclusive proof that my theory was

correct, that this 'homme machine' received its intellectual fluid,

its power of thought through itself, and not through this fabulous,

bodiless something which metaphysicians call soul? Was not this a

proof that, to possess a noble soul, it was only necessary to give

to the body noble nourishment? And where lies this boasted soul?

where else but in the stomach? The stomach is the soul; I allow it

is the brain that thinks, but the brain dares only think as his

exalted majesty the stomach allows; and if his royal highness feels

unwell, farewell to thought." [Footnote: La Mettrie's own words.]

The whole company burst out in loud and hearty laughter.

"Am I not right to call you a fou fieffe?" said the king. "There is

an old proverb, which says of a coward, that his heart lies in his

stomach; never before have I heard the soul banished there. But your

hymns of praise over the stomach and the pie have made you forget to

finish your story; let us hear the conclusion! Did the marriage take

place?"

"Sire, I had not quite finished my breakfast when the door was

violently opened, and a servant rushed in and announced that the

good Van Swiet had had a stroke of apoplexy in the cathedral. The

foolish man declared that rage and indignation over my conduct had

produced this fearful result; I am, myself, however, convinced that

it was the consequence of a good rich breakfast and a bottle of

Madeira wine; this disturbed the circulation of the blood, and he

was chilled by standing upon the cold stone floor of the church. Be

that as it may, poor Swiet was carried unconscious from the church

to his dwelling, and in a few hours he was dead! Esther, his

daughter and heir, was unfilial enough to leave the wish of her

father unfulfilled. She would not acknowledge our contract to be

binding, declared herself the bride of the little Mieritz, and

married him in a few months. I had, indeed, a legal claim upon her,

but Swiet was right when he assured me that so soon as he withdrew

his protection from me, the whole pack of fanatical priests and

weak-minded scholars would fall upon and tear me to pieces, unless I

saved myself by flight. So I obeyed your majesty's summons, took my

pilgrim-staff, and wandered on, like Ahasuerus."

"What! without taking vengeance on the crafty Mieritz, who, it is

evident, had carried out successfuly a well-considered strategy with

his pie?" said the king. "You must know that was all arranged: he

caught you with his pie, as men catch mice with cheese."

"Even if I knew that to be so, your majesty, I should not quarrel

with him on that account. I should have only said to my pie, as

Holofernes said to Judith: 'Thy sin was a great enjoyment, I forgive

you for slaying me!' For such a pie I would again sacrifice another

bride and another fortune!"

"And is there no possible means to obtain it?" said the king. "Can

you not obtain the receipt for this wonderful dish, which possesses

the magic power to liberate young women from intolerable men, and

change a miser into a spendthrift who thrusts his whole fortune down

his throat?"

"There is a prospect, sire, of securing it, but you cannot be the

first to profit by it. Lord Tyrconnel, who knows my history, opened

a diplomatic correspondence with Holland, some weeks ago, on this

subject, and the success of an important loan which France wishes to

effect with the house of Mieritz and Swiet, through the mediation of

Lord Tyrconnel, hangs upon the obtaining of this receipt. If Mieritz

refuses it, France will not make the loan. In that case the war,

which now seems probable with England, will not take place."

"And yet it is said that great events can only arise from great

causes," cried the king. "The peace of the world now hangs upon the

receipt of a truffle-pie, which La Mettrie wishes to obtain."

"What is the peace of the world in comparison with the peace of our

souls?" cried Voltaire. "La Mettrie may say what he will, and the

worthy Abbe Bastiani may be wholly silent, but I believe I have a

soul, which does not lie in my stomach, and this soul of mine will

never be satisfied till your majesty keeps your promise, and relates

one of those intellectual, piquant histories, glowing with wisdom

and poesy, which so often flows from the lips of our Solomon!"

"It is true it is now my turn to speak," said Frederick, smiling. "I

will be brief. Not only the lights, but also the eyes of Algarotti,

are burning dimly; and look how the good marquis is, in thought,

making love-winks toward his night-cap, which lies waiting for him

upon his bed! But be comforted, gentlemen, my story is short. Like

La Mettrie, I will relate a miracle, in which, however the eyes were

profited, the stomach had no interest. This miracle took place in

Breslau, in the year 1747.

"Cardinal Zinzendorf was just dead, and the Duke Schafgotch, who

some years before I had appointed his coadjutor, was to be his

successor. But the Silesians were not content. They declared that

Duke Schafgotch was too fond of the joys and pleasures of the world

to be a good priest; that he thought too much of the beautiful women

of this world to be able to offer to the holy Madonna, the mother of

God, the sanctified, ardent, but pure and modest love of a true son

of the church. The pious Silesians refused to believe that the duke

was sufficiently holy to be their bishop. The sage fathers of the

city of Breslau assured me that nothing less than a miracle could

secure for him the love and consideration of the Silesiaus. I had

myself gone to Silesia to see if the statement of the authorities

was well-founded, and if the people were really so discontented with

the new bishop. I found their statement fully confirmed. Only a

great miracle could incline the pious hearts of the Silesians to the

duke.

"And now remark, messieurs, how Providence is always with the pious

and the just--this desired miracle took place! On a lovely morning a

rumor was spread abroad, in the city of Breslau, that in the chapel

of the Holy Mother of God a miracle might be seen. All Breslau--the

loveliest ladies of the haute volee, and the poorest beggars of the

street--rushed to the church to look upon this miracle. Yes, it was

undeniable! The hair of the Madonna, which stood in enticing but

wooden beauty upon the altar, whose clothing was furnished by the

first modistes, and whose hair by the first perruquier--this hair,

wonderful to relate, had grown! It was natural that she should

exercise supernatural power. The blind, the lame, the crippled were

cured by her touch. I myself--for you may well think that I hastened

to see the miracle--saw a lame man throw away his crutch and dance a

minuet in honor of the Madonna. There was a blind man who approached

with a broad band bound over his eyes. He was led forward to this

wonderful hair. Scarcely had the lovely locks touched his face, than

he tore the band from his eyes, and shouted with ecstasy--his sight

was restored! Thousands, who were upon their knees praying in wrapt

devotion, shouted in concert with him, and here and there inspired

voices called out: 'The holy Madonna is content with her new servant

the bishop! if she were not, she would not perform these miracles.'

These voices fell like a match in this magazine of excitement. Men

wept and embraced each other, and thanked God for the new bishop,

whom yesterday they had refused.

"In the meantime, however, there were still some suspicious,

distrustful souls who would not admit that the growth of the

Madonna's hair was a testimony in favor of the bishop. But these

stiff-necked unbelievers, these heartless skeptics, were at last

convinced. Two days later this lovely hair had grown perceptibly;

and still two days later, it hung in luxurious length and fulness

over her shoulders. No one could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin

was pleased with her priest. It had often happened that hair had

turned gray, or been torn out by the roots in rage and scorn. No

one, however, can maintain that the hair grows unless we are in a

happy and contented mood. The Madonna, therefore, was pleased. The

wondrous growth of her hair enraptured the faithful, and all mankind

declared that this holy image cut from a pear-tree, was the Virgin

Mary, who with open eyes watched over Breslau, and whose hair grew

in honor of the new Bishop Schafgotch--he was now almost adored.

Thousands of the believers surrounded his palace and besought his

blessing. It was a beautiful picture of a shepherd and his flock.

The Madonna no longer found it necessary to make her hair grow; one

miracle had sufficed, and with the full growth of her hair the

archbishop had also grown into importance."

"But your majesty has not yet named the holy saint at whose

intercession this miracle was performed," said the Marquis D'Argens.

"Graciously disclose the name, that we may pray for pardon and

blessing."

"This holy saint was my friseur" said the king, laughing. "I made

him swear that he would never betray my secret. Every third day, in

the twilight, he stole secretly to the church, and placed a new wig

upon the Madonna, and withdrew the old one. [Footnote: Authentic

addition to the "History of Frederick the Second."] You see,

messieurs, that not only happiness but piety may hang on a hair, and

those holy saints to whom the faithful pray were, without doubt,

adroit perruquiers who understand their cue."

"And who use it as a scourge upon the backs of the pious penitents,"

said Voltaire. "Ah, sire! your story is as wise as it is piquant--it

is another proof that you are a warrior. You have won a spiritual

battle with your miraculous wig, a battle against Holy Mother

Church."

"By which, happily, no soldiers and only a few wigs were left

behind. But see how grave and mute our very worthy abbe appears--I

believe he is envious of the miracle I performed! And now it is your

turn, Bastiani: give us your story--a history of some of the lovely

Magdalens you have encountered."

"Ah, sire! will not your majesty excuse me?" said the abbe, bowing

low. "My life has been the still, quiet, lonely, unostentatious life

of a priest, and only the ever-blessed King Frederick William

introduced storm and tempest into its even course. That was, without

doubt, God's will; otherwise this robust and giant form which He

gave me would have been in vain. My height and strength so

enraptured the emissaries of the king, that in the middle of the

service before the altar, as I was reading mass, they tore me away

without regarding the prayers and outcries of my flock. I was

violently borne off, and immediately enrolled as a soldier."

[Footnote: Thiebault.]

"A wonderful idea!" cried Voltaire, "to carry off a priest in his

vestments and make a soldier of him; but say, now, abbe, could you

not, at least, have taken your housekeeper with you? I dare say she

was young and pretty."

"I do not know," said Bastiani; "I am, as you know, very short-

sighted, and I never looked upon her face; but it was a great

misfortune for a priest to be torn from the Tyrolese mountains and

changed into a soldier. But now, I look upon this as my greatest

good fortune; by this means were the eyes of my exalted king fixed

upon me; he was gracious, and honored me with his condescending

friendship."

"You forget there is no king here, and that here no man must be

flattered," said Frederick, frowning.

"Sire, I know there is no king present, and that proves I am no

flatterer. I speak of my love and admiration to my king, but not to

his face. I praise and exalt him behind his back; that shows that I

love him dearly, not for honor or favor, but out of a pure heart

fervently."

"What happiness for your pure and unselfish heart, that your place

of canonary of Breslau brings in three thousand thalers! otherwise

your love, which does not understand flattery, might leave you in

the lurch; you might be hungry."

"He that eats of the bread of the Lord shall never hunger," said

Bastiani, in a low and solemn voice;" he that will serve two masters

will be faithful to neither, and may fear to be hungry."

"Oh, oh! look at our pious abbe, who throws off his sheep's skin and

turns the rough side out," cried Voltaire, "It is written, 'The

sheep shall be turned into wolves,' and you, dear abbe, in your

piety fulfil this prophecy."

"Your witty illusions are meant for me because I am the historian of

the King of France, and gentleman of the bed-chamber to the King of

Prussia. Compose yourself. As historian to the King of France, I

have no pension, and his majesty of Prussia will tell you that I am

the most useless of servants that the sun of royal favor ever shone

upon. Yes, truly, I am a poor, modest, trifling, good-for-nothing

creature; and if his majesty did not allow me, from time to time, to

read his verses and rejoice in their beauty, and here and there to

add a comma, I should be as useless a being as that Catholic priest

stationed at Dresden, at the court of King Augustus, who has nothing

to do--no man or woman to confess--there, as here, every man being a

Lutheran. Algarotti told me he asked him once how he occupied

himself. The worthy abbe answered: 'Io sono il cattolica di sua

maesta.' So I will call myself, 'Il pedagogue di sua, maesta.'

[Footnote: "Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire," p. 376.] Like yourself,

I serve but one master."

"Alas! I fear my cattolica will not linger long by me," said the

king. "A man of his talent and worth cannot content himself with

being canon of Breslau. No, Bastiani, you will, without doubt, rise

higher. You will become a prelate, an eminence; yes, you will,

perhaps, wear the tiara. But what shall I be when you have mounted

this glittering pinnacle--when you have become pope? I wager you

will deny me your apostolic blessing; that you will not even allow

me to kneel and kiss your slipper. If any man should dare to name me

to you, you would no longer remember this unselfish love, which,

without doubt, you feel passionately for me at this moment. Ah! I

see you now rising from St. Peter's chair with apostolic sublimity,

and exclaiming with praiseworthy indignation: 'How! this heretic,

this unclean, this savage from hell! I curse him, I condemn him. Let

no man dare even to name him.'"

"Grace, grace, sire!" cried the abbe, holding his hands humbly, and

looking up at the king.

The other gentlemen laughed heartily. The king was inexorable. The

specious holiness and hypocrisy which the abbe had brought upon the

stage incensed him, and he was resolved to punish it.

"Now, if you were pope, and I am convinced you will be, I should,

without doubt, go to Rome. It is very important for me to ascertain,

while I have you here, what sort of a reception you would accord me?

So, let us hear. When I appear before your holiness, what will you

say to me?"

The abbe, who had been sitting with downcast eyes, and murmuring

from time to time in pleading tones: "Ah, sire! ah, sire!" now

looked up, and a flashing glance fell upon the handsome face of the

king, now glowing with mirth.

"Well?" repeated the king, "what would you say to me?"

"Sire," said Bastiani, bowing reverently, "I would say, 'Almighty

eagle, cover me with your wings, and protect me from your own

beak.'" [Footnote: Bastiani's own words.--See Thiebault, p. 43.]

"That is an answer worthy of your intellect," said the king,

smiling, "and in consideration of it I will excuse you from relating

some little history of your life.--Now, Duke Algarotti, your time

has come. You are the last, and no doubt you will conclude the

evening worthily."

"Sire, my case is similar to Bastiani's. There has been no mystery

in my life; only that which seemed miraculous for a priest was

entirely natural and simple in my case. I have travelled a great

deal, have seen the world, known men; and all my experience and the

feelings and convictions of my heart have at last laid me at the

feet of your majesty. I am like the faithful, who, having been

healed by a miracle, hang a copy of the deceased member upon the

miraculous image which cured them. My heart was sick of the world

and of men; your majesty healed it, and I lay it thankfully and

humbly at your feet. This is my whole history, and truly it is a

wonderful one. I have found a manly king and a kingly man."

[Footnote: Algarotti's own words.]

"Truly, such a king is the wonder of the world," said Voltaire. "A

king, who being a king, is still a man, and being a man is still a

noble king. I believe the history of the world gives few such

examples. If we search the records of all people, we will find that

all their kings have committed many crimes and follies, and but few

great, magnanimous deeds. No, no! let us never hope to civilize

kings. In vain have men sought to soften them by the help of art; in

vain taught them to love it and to cultivate it. They are always

lions, who seemed to be tamed when perpetually nattered. They

remain, in truth, always wild, bloodthirsty, and fantastic. In the

moment when you least expect it, the instinct awakens, and we fall a

sacrifice to their claws or their teeth." [Footnote: Thiebault.]

The king, who, up to this time, had listened, with a smiling face,

to the passionate and bitter speech of Voltaire, now rose from his

seat, and pointing his finger threateningly at him, said, good-

humoredly: "Still, still, monsieur! Beware! I believe the king

comes! Lower your voice, Voltaire, that he may not hear you. If he

heard you, he might consider it his duty to be even worse than

yourself. [Footnote: The king's own words.] Besides, it is late. Let

us not await the coming of the king, but withdraw very quietly.

Good-night, messieurs."

With a gracious but proud nod of his head, he greeted the company

and withdrew.

CHAPTER V.

ROME SAUVEE.

The whole court was in a state of wild excitement, A rare spectacle

was preparing for them--something unheard of in the annals of the

Berliners. Voltaire's new drama of "Catiline," to which he had now

given the name of "Rome Saved," was to be given in the royal palace,

in a private theatre gotten up for the occasion, and the actors and

actresses were to be no common artistes, but selected from the

highest court circles. Princess Amelia had the role of Aurelia,

Prince Henry of Julius Caesar, and Voltaire of Cicero.

The last rehearsal was to take place that morning. Voltaire had

shown himself in his former unbridled license, his biting irony, his

cutting sarcasm. Not an actor or actress escaped his censure or his

scorn. The poor poet D'Arnaud had been the special subject of his

mocking wit. D'Arnaud had once been Voltaire's favorite scholar, and

he had commended him highly to the king. He had the misfortune to

please Frederick, who had addressed to him a flattering poem. For

this reason Voltaire hated him, and sought continually to deprive

him of Frederick's favor and get him banished from court.

This morning, for the first time, there was open strife between

them, and the part which D'Arnaud had to play in "Rome Sauvee" gave

occasion for the difficulty. D'Arnaud, it is true, had but two words

to say, but his enunciation did not please Voltaire. He declared

that D'Arnaud uttered them intentionally and maliciously with

coldness and indifference.

D'Arnaud shrugged his shoulders and said a speech of two words did

not admit of power or action. He asked what declamation could

possibly do for two insignificant words, but make them ridiculous.

This roused Voltaire's rage to the highest pitch. "And this

utterance of two words is then beyond your ability? It appears you

cannot speak two words with proper emphasis!" [Footnote: In a letter

to Madarae Denis, Voltaire wrote: "Tout le monde me reproche que le

roi a fait dos vers pour d'Arnaud, des vers qui ne sont pas ce qu'il

a fait de micux; mais songez qu'a quatre cent lieues de Paris il est

bien difficile de savoir si un homme qu'on lui recommende a du

merite ou non; de plus c'est toujours des vers, et bien ou mal

appliques ils prouvent que le vainqueur de l'Autriche aime les

belles-lettres que j'aime de tout mon coeur. D'ailleurs D'Arnaud est

un bon diable, qui par-oi par-la ne laisoe pas de rencontrer de bons

tirades. Il a du gout, il se forme, et s'il aime qu'il se deforme,

il n'y a pas grand mal. En un mot, la petite meprise du Roi de

Prusse n'empeche pas qu'il ne soit le plus singulier de tous les

homines."--Voyez "Oeuvres Completes."]

And now, with fiery eloquence, he began to show that upon these

words hung the merit of the drama; that this speech was the most

important of all! With jeers and sarcasm he drove poor D'Arnaud to

the wall, who, breathless, raging, choking, could find no words nor

strength to reply. He was dumb, cast down, humiliated.

The merry laughter of the king, who greatly enjoyed the scene, and

the general amusement, increased the pain of his defeat, and made

the triumph of Voltaire more complete.

At last, however, the parts were well learned, and even Voltaire was

content with his company. This evening the entire court was to

witness the performance of the drama, which Voltaire called his

master-work.

Princess Amelia had the role of Aurelia. She had withdrawn to her

rooms, and had asked permission of the queen-mother to absent

herself from dinner. Her part was difficult, and she needed

preparation and rest.

But the princess was not occupied with her role, or with the

arrangement of her toilet. She lay stretched upon the divan, and

gazed with tearful eyes upon the letter which she held in her

trembling hands. Mademoiselle von Haak was kneeling near her, and

looking up with tender sympathy upon the princess.

"What torture, what martyrdom I suffer!" said Amelia. "I must laugh

while my heart is filled with despair; I must take part in the pomps

and fetes of this riotous court, while thick darkness is round about

me. No gleam of light, no star of hope, do I see. Oh, Ernestine, do

not ask me to be calm and silent! Grant me at least the relief of

giving expression to my sorrow."

"Dear princess, why do you nourish your grief? Why will you tear

open the wounds of your heart once more?"

"Those wounds have never healed," cried Amelia, passionately. "No!

they have been always bleeding--always painful. Do you think so

pitifully of me, Ernestine, as to believe that a few years have been

sufficient to teach me to forget?"

"Am I not also called upon to learn to forget?" cried Ernestine,

bitterly. "Is not my life's happiness destroyed? Am I not eternally

separated from my beloved? Alas! princess, you are much happier than

I! You know where, at least in thought, you can find your unhappy

friend. Not the faintest sound in the distance gives answer to my

wild questionings. My thoughts are wandering listlessly, wearily.

They know not where to seek my lover--whether he lies in the dark

fortress, or in the prison-house of the grave."

"It is true," said Amelia, thoughtfully; "our fates are indeed

pitiable! Oh, Ernestine, what have I not suffered in the last five

years, during which I have not seen Trenck?--five years of self-

restraint, of silence, of desolation! How often have I believed that

I could not support my secret griefs--that death must come to my

relief! How often, with rouged cheeks and laughing lips, conversing

gayly with the glittering court circle whose centre my cruel brother

forced me to be, have my troubled thoughts wandered far, far away to

my darling; from whom the winds brought me no message, the stars no

greeting; and yet I knew that he lived, and loved me still! If

Trenck were dead, he would appear to me in spirit. Had he forgotten

me, I should know it; the knowledge would pierce my heart, and I

should die that instant. I know that he has written to me, and that

all his dear letters have fallen into the hands of the base spies

with which my brother has surrounded me. But I am not mad! I will be

calm; a day may come in which Trenck may require my help. I will not

slay myself; some day I may be necessary to him I love. I have long

lived, as the condemned in hell, who, in the midst of burning

torture, open both eyes and ears waiting for the moment when the

blessed Saviour will come for their release. God has at last been

merciful; He has blinded the eyes of my persecutors, and this letter

came safely to my hands. Oh, Ernestine, look! look! a letter from

Trenck! He loves me--he has not forgotten me--he calls for me! Oh,

my God! my God! why has fate bound me so inexorably? Why was I born

to a throne, whose splendor has not lighted my path, but cast me in

the shadow of death? Why am I not poor and obscure? Then I might

hasten to my beloved when he calls me. I might stand by his side in

his misfortunes, and share his sorrows and his tears."

"Dear princess, you can alleviate his fate. Look at me! I am poor,

obscure, and dependent, and yet I cannot hasten to my beloved; he is

in distress, and yet he does not call upon me for relief. He knows

that I cannot help him. You, princess, thanks to your rank, have

power and influence. Trenck calls you, and you are here to aid and

comfort."

"God grant that I may. Trenck implores me to turn to my brother, and

ask him to interest the Prussian embassy in Vienna in his favor;

thereby hoping to put an end to the process by which he is about to

be deprived of his only inheritance--the estate left him by his

cousin, the captain of the pandours. Alas! can I speak with my

brother of Trenck? He knows not that for five years his name has

never passed my lips; he knows not that I have never been alone with

my brother the king for one moment since that eventful day in which

I promised to give him up forever. We have both avoided an

interview; he, because he shrank from my prayers and tears, and I,

because a crust of ice had formed over my love for him, and I would

not allow it to melt beneath his smiles and kindly words. I loved

Trenck with my whole heart, I was resolved to be faithful to him,

and I was resentful toward my brother. Now, Ernestine, I must

overcome myself, I must speak with the king; Trenck needs my

services, and I will have courage to plead for him."

"What will your highness ask? think well, princess, before you act.

Who knows but that the king has entirely forgotten Trenck? Perhaps

it were best so. You should not point out to the angry lion the

insect which has awakened him, he will crush it in his passion.

Trenck is in want; send him gold--gold to bribe the men of law. It

is well-known that the counsellors-at-law are dull-eyed enough to

mistake sometimes the glitter of gold for the glitter of the sun of

justice. Send him gold, much gold, and he will tame the tigers who

lie round about the courts of justice, and he will win his suit."

Princess Amelia shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "He calls

upon me for help; and I send him nothing but empty gold; he asks for

my assistance, and I play the coward and hold my peace. No, no! I

will act, and I will act to-day! You know that only after the most

urgent entreaty of the king, I consented to appear in this drama.

While my brother pleaded with me, he said, with his most winning

smile, 'Grant me this favor, my sister, and be assured that the

first petition you make of me, I will accord cheerfully.' Now, then,

I will remind him of this promise; I will plead for Trenck, and he

dare not refuse. Oh, Ernestine! I know not surely, but it appears to

me that for some little time past the king loves me more tenderly

than heretofore; his eye rests upon me with pleasure, and often it

seems to me his soft glance is imploring my love in return. You may

call me childish, foolish; but I think, sometimes, that my silent

submission has touched his heart, and he is at last disposed to be

merciful, and allow me to be happy--happy, in allowing me to flee

from the vain glory of a court; in forgetting that I am a princess,

and remembering only that I am a woman, to whom God has given a

heart capable of love." Amelia did not see the melancholy gaze with

which her friend regarded her; she was full of ardor and enthusiasm,

and with sparkling eyes and throbbing breast she sprang from the

divan and cried out, "Yes, it is so; my brother will make me happy!"

"Alas, princess, do not dare to rely upon so false a hope! Never

will the king consent that you shall be happy beneath your royal

rank!"

"Tell me now, Ernestine," said Amelia, with a smile, "is not the

reigning Margravine of Baireuth as high in rank as I am?"

"Yes, your highness," said Ernestine, with surprise, "for the

reigning Margravine of Baireuth is your exalted sister."

"I do not speak of her, but of the widow of the former margrave. She

has also reigned. Well, she has just married the young Duke Hobitz.

The king told me this yesterday, with a merry laugh. The little

Duchess of Hobitz is his aunt, and I am his sister!"

"If the king had had power to control his aunt, as he has to control

his sister, he would not have allowed this marriage."

Amelia heard, but she did not believe. With hasty steps and

sparkling eyes she walked backward and forward in her room; then,

after a long pause, she drew near her friend, and laying her hands

upon her shoulders, she said: "You are a good soul and a faithful

friend; you have ever had a patient and willing ear for all my

complaints. Only think now how charming it will be when I come to

tell you of my great happiness. And now, Ernestine, come, you must

go over my part with me once more, and then arrange my toilet. I

will be lovely this evening, in order to please the king. I will

play like an artiste in order to touch his cold heart. If I act my

part with such truth and burning eloquence that he is forced to weep

over the sorrows of the wretched and loving woman whom I represent,

will not his heart be softened, will he not take pity upon my

blasted life? The tragic part I play will lend me words of fire to

depict my own agony. Come, then, Ernestine, come! I must act well my

tragedy--I must win the heart of my king!"

The princess kept her word; she played with power and genius. Words

of passion and of pain flowed like a stream of lava from her lips;

her oaths of faith and eternal constancy, her wild entreaties, her

resignation, her despair, were not the high-flown, pompous phrases

of the tragedian, but truth in its omnipotence. It was living

passion, it was breathing agony; and, with fast-flowing tears, with

the pallor of death, she told her tale of love; and in that vast

saloon, glittering with jewels, filled with the high-born, the

brave, the beautiful, nothing was heard but long-drawn sighs and

choking sobs.

Queen Elizabeth Christine forgot all etiquette in the remembrance of

her own sad fate so powerfully recalled. She covered her face with

her hands, and bitter tears fell over her slender fingers. The

queen-mother, surprised at her own emotion, whispered lightly that

it was very warm, and while fanning herself she sought to dry her

secret tears unnoticed.

Even the king was moved; his eyes were misty, and indescribable

melancholy played upon his lips. Voltaire was wild with rapture; he

hung upon every movement, every glance of Amelia. Words of glowing

praise, thanks, admiration flowed from his lips. He met the princess

behind the scenes, and forgetting all else he cried out, with

enthusiasm: "You are worthy to be an actress, and to play in

Voltaire's tragedies!"

The princess smiled and passed on silently--what cared she for

Voltaire's praise? She knew that she had gained her object, and that

the king's heart was softened. This knowledge made her bright and

brave; and when at the close of the drama the king came forward,

embraced her with warmth, and thanked her in fond arid tender words

for the rich enjoyment of the evening, due not only to the great

poet Voltaire, but also to the genius of his sister, she reminded

him smilingly that she had a favor to ask.

"I pray you, my sister," said Frederick, gayly, "ask something right

royal from me this evening--I am in the mood to grant all your

wishes."

Amelia looked at him pleadingly. "Sire," said she, "appoint an hour

to-morrow morning in which I may come to you and make known my

request. Remember, your majesty has promised to grant it in

advance."

The king's face was slightly clouded. "This is, indeed, a happy

coincidence," said he. "It was my intention to ask an interview with

you to-morrow, and now you come forward voluntarily to meet my

wishes. At ten in the morning I shall be with you, and I also have

something to ask."

"I will then await you at ten o'clock, and make known my request."

"And when I have granted it, my sister, it will be your part to

fulfil my wishes also."

CHAPTER VI.

A WOMAN'S HEART.

The Princess Amelia lay the whole of the following night, with wide-

open eyes and loudly-heating heart, pale and breathless upon her

couch. No soft slumber soothed her feverish-glowing brow; no sweet

dream of hope dissipated the frightful pictures drawn by her

tortured fantasy.

"What is it?" said she, again and again--"what is it that the king

will ask of me? what new mysterious horror rises up threateningly

before me, and casts a shadow upon my future?"

She brought every word, every act of the previous day in review

before her mind. Suddenly she recalled the sad and sympathetic

glance of her maid of honor; the light insinuations, the half-

uttered words which seemed to convey a hidden meaning.

"Ernestine knows something that she will not tell me," cried Amelia.

At this thought her brow was covered with cold perspiration, and her

limbs shivered as if with ague. She reached out her hand to ring for

Fraulein von Haak; then suddenly withdrew it, ashamed of her own

impatience. "Why should I wish to know that which I cannot change? I

know that a misfortune threatens me. I will meet it with a clear

brow and a bold heart."

Amelia lay motionless till the morning. When she rose from her bed,

her features wore an expression of inexorable resolve. Her eyes

flashed as boldly, as daringly as her royal brother Frederick's when

upon the battle-field. She dressed herself carefully and

tastefully, advanced to meet her ladies with a gracious greeting,

and chattered calmly and cheerfully with them on indifferent

subjects. At last she was left alone with Fraulein von Haak. She

stepped in front of her, and looked in her eyes long and

searchingly.

"I read it in your face, Ernestine, but I entreat you do not make it

known in words unless my knowledge of the facts would diminish my

danger."

Ernestine shook her head sadly. "No," said she, "your royal highness

has no power over the misfortune that threatens you. You are a

princess, and must be obedient to the will of the king."

"Good!" said Amelia, "we will see if my brother has power to subdue

my will. Now, Ernestine, leave me; I am expecting the king."

Scarcely had her maid withdrawn, when the door of the anteroom was

opened, and the king was announced. The princess advanced to meet

him smilingly, but, as the king embraced her and pressed a kiss upon

her brow, she shuddered and looked up at him searchingly. She read

nothing in his face but the most heart-felt kindliness and love.

"If he makes me miserable, it is at least not his intention to do

so," thought she.--"Now, my brother, we are alone," said the

princess, taking a place near the king upon the divan. "And now

allow me to make known my request at once--remember you have

promised to grant it."

The king looked with a piercing glance at the sweet face now

trembling with excitement and impatience. "Amelia," said he, "have

you no tender word of greeting, of warm home-love to say to me? Do

you not know that five years have passed since we have seen each

other alone, and enjoyed that loving and confidential intercourse

which becomes brothers and sisters?"

"I know," said Amelia sadly, "these five years are written on my

countenance, and if they have not left wrinkles on my brow, they

have pierced my heart with many sorrows, and left their shadows

there! Look at me, my brother--am I the same sister Amelia?"

"No," said the king, "no! You are pallid--your cheeks are hollow.

But it is strange--I see this now for the first time. You have been

an image of youth, beauty, and grace up to this hour. The fatigue of

yesterday has exhausted you--that is all."

"No, my brother, you find me pallid and hollow-eyed today, because

you see me without rouge. I have to-day for the first time laid

aside the mask of rosy youth, and the smiling indifference of manner

with which I conceal my face and my heart from the world. You shall

see me to-day as I really am; you shall know what I have suffered.

Perhaps then you will be more willing to fulfil my request? Listen,

my brother, I--"

The king laid his hand softly upon her shoulder. "Stop, Amelia;

since I look upon you, I fear you will ask me something not in my

power to grant."

"You have given me your promise, sire."

"I will not withdraw it; but I ask you to hear my prayer before you

speak. Perhaps it may exert an influence--may modify your request. I

allow myself, therefore, in consideration of your own interest,

solely to beg that I may speak first."

"You are king, sire, and have only to command," said Amelia, coldly.

The king fixed a clear and piercing glance for one moment upon his

sister, then stood up, and, assuming an earnest and thoughtful mien,

he said: "I stand now before you, princess, not as a king, but as

the ambassador of a king. Princess Amelia, through me the King of

Denmark asks your hand; he wishes to wed you, and I have given my

consent. Your approval alone is wanting, and I think you will not

refuse it."

The princess listened with silent and intrepid composure; not a

muscle of her face trembled; her features did not lose for one

moment their expression of quiet resolve.

"Have you finished, sire?" said she, indifferently.

"I have finished, and I await your reply."

"Before I answer, allow me to make known my own request. Perhaps

what I may say may modify your wishes. You will, at least, know if

it is proper for me to accept the hand of the King of Denmark. Does

your majesty allow me to speak?"

"Speak," said the king, seating himself near her.

After a short pause, Amelia said, in an earnest, solemn voice:

"Sire, I pray for pardon for the Baron Frederick von Trenck."

Yielding to an involuntary agitation, she glided from the divan upon

her knees, and raising her clasped hands entreatingly toward her

brother, she repeated: "Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron Frederick

von Trenck!"

The king sprang up, dashed back the hands of his sister violently,

and rushed hastily backward and forward in the room.

Amelia, ashamed of her own humility, rose quickly from her knees,

and, as if to convince herself of her own daring and resolution, she

stepped immediately in front of the king, and said, in a loud, firm

voice for the third time: "Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron

Frederick von Trenck. He is wretched because he is banished from his

home; he is in despair because he receives no justice from the

courts of law, it being well known that he has no protector to

demand his rights. He is poor and almost hopeless because the courts

have refused him the inheritance of his cousin, the captain of the

pandours whose enemies have accused him since his death, only while

they lusted for his millions. His vast estate has been confiscated,

under the pretence that it was unlawfully acquired. But these

accusations have not been established; and yet, now that he is dead,

they refuse to give up this fortune to the rightful heir, Frederick

von Trenck. Sire, I pray that you will regard the interests of your

subject. Be graciously pleased to grant him the favor of your

intercession. Help him, by one powerful word, to obtain possession

of his rights. Ah, sire, you see well how modest, how faint-hearted

I have become. I ask no longer for happiness! I beg for gold, and I

think, sire, we owe him this pitiful reparation for a life's

happiness trodden under foot."

Frederick by a mighty effort succeeded in overcoming his rage. He

was outwardly as calm as his sister; but both concealed under this

cool, indifferent exterior a strong energy, an unfaltering purpose.

They were quiet because they were inflexible.

"And this is the favor you demand of me?" said the king.

"The favor you have promised to grant," said Amelia.

"And if I do this, will you fulfil my wish? Will you become the wife

of the King of Denmark? Ah, you are silent. Now, then, listen.

Consent to become Queen of Denmark, and on the day in which you pass

the boundary of Prussia and enter your own realm as queen, on that

day I will recall Trenck to Berlin, and all shall be forgotten.

Trenck shall again enter my guard, and my ambassador at Vienna shall

appear for him in court. Decide, now, Amelia--will you be Queen of

Denmark?"

"Ah, sire, you offer me a cruel alternative. You wish me to purchase

a favor which you had already freely and unconditionally granted."

"You forget, my sister, that I entreat where I have the right to

command. It will be easy to obey when through your obedience you can

make another happy. Once more, then, will you accept my

proposition?"

Amelia did not answer immediately. She fixed her eyes steadily upon

the king's face; their glances met firmly, quietly. Each read in the

eyes of the other inexorable resolve.

"Sire, I cannot accept your proposition; I cannot become the wife of

the King of Denmark."

The king shrank back, and a dark cloud settled upon his brow. He

pressed his hand nervously upon the arm-chair near which he stood,

and forced himself to appear calm. "And why can you not become the

wife of the King of Denmark?"

"Because I have sworn solemnly, calling upon God to witness, that I

will never become the wife of any other man than him whom I love--

because I consider myself bound to God and to my conscience to

fulfil this oath. As I cannot be the wife of Trenck, I will remain

unmarried."

And now the king was crimson with rage, and his eyes flashed

fiercely. "The wife of Trenck!" cried he; "the wife of a traitor!

Ah, you think still of him, and in spite of your vow--in spite of

your solemn oath--you still entertain the hope of this unworthy

alliance!"

"Sire, remember on what conditions my oath was given. You promised

me Trenck should be free, and I swore to give him up--never even to

write to him. Fate did not accept my oath. Trenck fled before you

had time to fulfil your word, and I was thus released from my vow;

and yet I have never written to him--have heard nothing from him. No

one knows better than yourself that I have not heard from him."

"So five years have gone by without his writing to you, and yet you

have the hardihood to-day to call his name!"

"I have the courage, sire, because I know well Trenck has never

ceased to love me. That I have received no letters from him does not

prove that he has not written; it only proves that I am surrounded

by watchful spies, who do not allow his letters to reach me."

"Ah," said the king, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders,

"you are of the opinion that I have suppressed these letters?"

"Yes, I am of that opinion."

"You deceive yourself, then, Amelia. I have not surrounded you with

spies; I have intercepted no letters. You look at me incredulously.

I declare to you that I speak the truth. Now you can comprehend, my

sister, that your heart has deceived you--you have squandered your

love upon a wretched object who has forgotten you."

"Sire!" cried Amelia, with flaming eyes, "no abuse of the man I

love!"

"You love him still!" said the king, white with passion, and no

longer able to control his rage--"you love him still! You have wept

and bewailed him, while he has shamefully betrayed and mocked at

you. Yes, look on me, if you will, with those scornful, rebellious

glances--it is as I say! You must and shall know all! I have spared

you until now; I trusted in your own noble heart! I thought that,

driven by a storm of passion, it had, like a proud river, for one

moment overstepped its bounds; then quietly, calmly resumed that

course which nature and fate had marked out for it. I see now that I

have been deceived in you, as you have been deceived in Trenck! I

tell you he has betrayed you! He, formerly a Prussian officer, at

the luxurious and debauched court of Petersburg, has not only

betrayed you, but his king. At the table of his mistress, the wife

of Bestuchef, he has shown your picture and boasted that you gave it

to him. The Duke of Goltz, my ambassador at the Russian court,

informed me of this; and look you, I did not slay him! I did not

demand of the Empress Anne that the Prussian deserter should be

delivered up. I remembered that you had once loved him, and that I

had promised you to be lenient. But I have had him closely watched.

I know all his deeds; I am acquainted with all his intrigues and

artifices. I know he has had a love-affair with the young Countess

Narischkin--that he continued his attentions long after her marriage

with General Bondurow. Can you believe, my sister, that he

remembered the modest, innocent oaths of love and constancy he had

exchanged with you while enjoying himself in the presence of this

handsome and voluptuous young woman? Do you believe that he recalled

them when he arranged a plan of flight with his beloved, and sought

a safe asylum beyond the borders of Russia? Do you believe that he

thought of you when he received from this ill-regulated woman her

diamonds and all the gold she possessed, in order to smooth the way

to their escape?"

"Mercy, mercy!" stammered Amelia, pale and trembling, and sinking

upon a seat. "Cease, my brother; do you not see that your words are

killing me? Have pity upon me!"

"No! no mercy!" said the king; "you must and you shall know all, in

order that you may be cured of this unholy malady, this shameful

love. You shall know that Trenck not only sells the secrets of

politics, but the secrets of love. Every thing is merchandise with

him, even his own heart. He not only loved the beautiful Bondurow

but he loved her diamonds. This young woman died of the small-pox, a

few days before the plan of flight could be fully arranged. Trenck,

however, became her heir; he refused to give back the brilliants and

the eight thousand rubles which she had placed in his hands."

"Oh my God, my God! grant that I die!" cried the Princess Amelia.

"But the death of his beloved," said the king (without regarding the

wild exclamations of the princess)--"this death was so greatly to

his advantage, that he soon consoled himself with the love of the

attractive Bestuchef--this proud and intriguing woman who now,

through the weakness of her husband, rules over Russia, and

threatens by her plots and intrigues to complicate the history and

peace of Europe. She is neither young nor beautiful; she is forty

years of age, and you cannot believe that Trenck at four-and-twenty

burns with love for her. But she adores him; she loves him with that

mad, bacchantic ardor which the Roman empress Julia felt for the

gladiators, whose magnificent proportions she admired at the circus.

She loved him and confessed it; and his heart, unsubdued by the

ancient charms, yielded to the magic power of her jewels and her

gold. He became the adorer of Bestuchef; he worked diligently in the

cabinet of the chancellor, and appeared to be the best of Russian

patriots, and seemed ready to kiss the knout with the same devotion

with which he kissed the slipper of the chancellor's wife. At this

time I resolved to try his patriotism, and commissioned my

ambassador to see if his patriotic ardor could not be cooled by

gold. Well, my sister, for two thousand ducats, Trenck copied the

design of the fortress of Cronstadt, which the chancellor had just

received from his engineer."

"That is impossible!" said Amelia, whose tears had now ceased to

flow, and who listened to her brother with distended but quiet eyes.

"Impossible!" said Frederick. "Oh my sister, gold has a magic power

to which nothing is impossible! I wished to unmask the traitor

Trenck, and expose him in his true colors to the chancellor. I

ordered Goltz to hand him the copy of the fortress, drawn by Trenck

and signed with his name, and to tell him how he obtained it. The

chancellor was beside himself with rage, and swore to take a right

Russian revenge upon the traitor--he declared he should die under

the knout."

Amelia uttered a wild cry, and clasped her hands over her convulsed

face.

The king laughed, bitterly. "Compose yourself--we triumphed too

early; we had forgotten the woman! In his rage the chancellor

disclosed every thing to her, and uttered the most furious curses

and resolves against Trenck. She found means to warn him, and, when

the police came in the night to arrest him, he was not at home--he

had taken refuge in the house of his friend the English ambassador,

Lord Hyndforth." [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs.]

"Ah! he was saved, then?" whispered Amelia.

The king looked at her in amazement. "Yes, he was saved. The next

day, Madame Bestuchef found means to convince her credulous husband

that Trenck was the victim of an intrigue, and entirely innocent of

the charge brought against him. Trenck remained, therefore, the

friend of the house, and Madame Bestuchef had the audacity to

publicly insult my ambassador. Trenck now announced himself as a

raging adversary of Prussia. He inflamed the heart of his powerful

mistress with hate, and they swore the destruction of Prussia. Both

were zealously engaged in changing the chancellor, my private and

confidential friend, into an enemy; and Trenck, the Russian patriot,

entered the service of the house of Austria, to intrigue against me

and my realm. [Footnote: Trenck himself writes on this subject: "I

would at that time have changed my fatherland into a howling

wilderness, if the opportunity had offered. I do not deny that from

this moment I did everything that was possible, in Russia, to

promote the views of the imperial ambassador, Duke Vernis, who knew

how to nourish the fire already kindled, and to make use of my

services."] Bestuchef, however, withstood these intrigues, and in

his distrust he watched over and threatened his faithless wife and

faithless friend. Trenck would have been lost, without doubt, if a

lucky accident had not again rescued him. His cousin the pandour

died in Vienna, and, as Trenck believed that he had left him a

fortune of some millions, he tore his tender ties asunder, and

hastened to Vienna to receive this rich inheritance, which, to his

astonishment, he found to consist not in millions, but in law

processes. This, Amelia, is the history of Trenck during these five

years in which you have received no news from him. Can you still say

that he has never forgotten you? that you are bound to be faithful

to him? You see I do not speak to you as a king, but as a friend,

and that I look at all these unhappy circumstances from your

standpoint. Treat me, then, as a friend, and answer me sincerely. Do

you still feel bound by your oath? Do you not know that he is a

faithless traitor, and that he has forgotten you?"

The princess had listened to the king with a bowed head and downcast

eyes. Now she looked up; the fire of inspiration beamed in her eye,

a melancholy smile played upon her lips.

"Sire," said she, "I took my vow without conditions, and I will keep

it faithfully till my death. Suppose, even, that a part of what you

have said is true, Trenck is young; you cannot expect that his

ardent and passionate heart should be buried under the ashes of the

vase of tears in which our love, in its beauty and bloom, crumbled

to dust. But his heart, however unstable it may appear, turns ever

back faithfully to that fountain, and he seeks to purify and

sanctify the wild and stormy present by the remembrance of the

beautiful and innocent past. You say that Trenck forgot me in his

prosperity: well, then, sire, in his misfortune he has remembered

me. In his misfortune he has forgotten the faithless, cold, and

treacherous letter which I wrote to him, and which he received in

the prison of Glatz. In his wretchedness, he has written to me, and

called upon me for aid. It shall not, be said that I did not hear

his voice--that I was not joyfully ready to serve him!"

"And he has dared to write to you!" said the king, with trembling

lips and scornful eye. "Who was bold enough to hand you this

letter?"

"Oh, sire, you will not surely demand that I shall betray my

friends! Moreover, if I named the messenger who brought me this

letter, it would answer no purpose; you would arrest and punish him,

and to-morrow I should find another to serve me as well. Unhappy

love finds pity, protection, and friends everywhere. Sire, I repeat

my request--pardon for Baron Trenck!"

"And I," cried the king, in a loud, stern voice, "I ask if you

accept my proposition--if you will become the wife of the King of

Denmark--and, mark well, princess, this is the answer to your

prayer."

"Sire, may God take pity on me! Punish me with your utmost scorn--I

cannot break my oath! You can force me to leave my vows unfulfilled-

-not to become the wife of the man I love--but you cannot force me

to perjure myself. I should indeed be foresworn if I stepped before

the altar with another man, and promised a love and faith which my

heart knows not, and can never know."

The king uttered a shrill cry of rage; maledictions hung upon his

lips, but he held them back, and forcing himself to appear composed,

he folded his arms, and walked hastily backward and forward through

the room.

The princess gazed at him in breathless silence, and with loudly-

beating heart she prayed to God for mercy and help; she felt that

this hour would decide the fate of her whole life. Suddenly the king

stood before her. His countenance was now perfectly composed.

"Princess Amelia," said he, "I give you four weeks' respite.

Consider well what I have said to you. Take counsel with your

conscience, your understanding, and your honor. In four weeks I will

come again to you, and ask if you are resolved to fulfil my request,

and become the wife of the King of Denmark. Until that time, I will

know how to restrain the Danish ambassador. If you dare still to

oppose my will, I will yet fulfil my promise, and grant you the

favor you ask of me. I will make proposals to Trenck to return to

Prussia, and the inducements I offer shall be so splendid that he

will not resist them. Let me once have him here, and it shall be my

affair to hold fast to him."

He bowed to the princess and left the room. Amelia watched him

silently, breathlessly, till he disappeared, then heaved a deep sigh

and called loudly for her maid.

"Ernestine! Ernestine!" said she, with trembling lips, "find me a

faithful messenger whom I can send immediately to Vienna. I must

warn Trenck! Danger threatens him! No matter what my brother's

ambassador may offer him, with what glittering promises he may

allure him, Trenck dare not listen to them, dare not accept them! He

must never return to Prussia--he is lost if he does so!"

Frederick returned slowly and silently to his apartment. As he

thought over the agitating scene he had just passed through, he

murmured lightly, "Oh, woman's heart! thou art like the restless,

raging sea, and pearls and monsters lie in thy depths!"

CHAPTER VII.

MADAME VON COCCEJI.

The Marquis d'Argens was right. Barbarina and her sister had left

England and returned to Berlin. They occupied the same expensive and

beautiful hotel in Behren Street; but it was no longer surrounded by

costly equipages, and besieged by gallant cavaliers. The elite of

the court no longer came to wonder and to worship.

Barbarina's house was lonely and deserted, and she herself was

changed. She was no longer the graceful, enchanting prima donna, the

floating sylph; she was a calm, proud woman, almost imposing in her

grave, pale beauty; her melancholy smile touched the heart, while it

contrasted strangely with her flashing eye.

Barbarina was in the same saloon where we last saw her, surrounded

with dukes and princes--worshippers at her shrine! To-day she was

alone; no one was by her side but her faithful sister Marietta. She

lay stretched upon the divan, with her arms folded across her bosom;

her head was thrown back upon the white, gold-embroidered cushion,

and her long, black curls fell in rich profusion around her; with

wide-open eyes she stared upon the ceiling, completely lost in sad

and painful thoughts. At a small table by her side sat her sister

Marietta, busily occupied in opening and reading the letters with

which the table was covered.

And now she uttered a cry of joy, and a happy smile played upon her

face. "A letter from Milan, from the impressario, Bintelli," said

she.

Barbarina remained immovable, and still stared at the ceiling.

"Binatelli offers you a magnificent engagement; he declares that all

Italy languishes with impatience to see you. that every city

implores your presence, and he is ambitious to be the first to

allure you back to your fatherland."

"Did you write to him that I desired an engagement?" said Barbarina.

"No, sister," said Marietta, slightly blushing; "I wrote to him as

to an old and valued friend; I described the restless, weary,

nomadic life we were leading, and told him you had left the London

stage forever."

"And does it follow that I will therefore appear in Milan? Write at

once that I am grateful for his offer, but neither in Milan nor any

other Italian city will I appear upon the stage."

"Ah, Barbarina, will we never again return to our beautiful Italy?"

said Marietta, tearfully.

"Did I say that, sister? I said only, I would not appear in public."

"But, Barbarina, he entreats so earnestly, and he offers you an

enormous salary!"

"I am rich enough, Marietta."

"No! no one is rich enough! Money is power, and the more millions

one has to spend, the more is one beloved."

"What care I for the love of men? I despise them all--all!" cried

Barbarina, passionately.

"What! all?" said Marietta, with a meaning smile; "all--even

Cocceji?"

Babarina raised herself hastily, and leaning upon her elbow, she

gazed with surprise upon her sister. "You think, then, that I love

Cocceji?"

"Did you not tell me so yourself?"

"Ah! I said so myself, did I?" said Barbarina, contemptuously, and

sinking back into her former quiet position.

"Yes, sister, do you not remember," said Marietta, eagerly; "can you

not recall how sad you were when we left Berlin a year ago? You

sobbed and wept, and looked ever backward from the carriage, then

lightly whispered, 'My happiness, my life, my love remain in

Berlin!' I asked you in what your happiness, your love, your life

consisted. Your answer was, 'Do you not know, then, that I love

Cocceji?' In truth, good sister I did not believe you! I thought you

left Berlin because the mother of Cocceji implored you to do so. I

know you to be magnanimous enough to sacrifice yourself to the

prayers and happiness of another, and for this reason alone you went

to London, where Lord Stuart McKenzie awaited us."

"Poor lord!" said Barbarina, thoughtfully. "I sinned greatly against

him! He loved me fondly; he waited for me with constancy; he was so

truly happy when I came at last, as he hoped, to fulfil my promise,

and become his wife! God knows I meant to be true, and I swore to

myself to make him a faithful wife; but my will was weaker than my

heart. I could not marry him, and on my wedding-day I fled from

London. Poor Lord Stuart!"

"And on that day, when, bathed in tears, you told me to prepare to

leave London with you secretly; on that day you said to me, 'I

cannot, no, I cannot wed a man I do not love. The air chokes me,

Marietta; I must return to Berlin; he is there whom I love, whom I

will love eternally!' I said again, 'Whom do you love, my sister?'

and you replied, 'I love Cocceji!' And now you are amazed that I

believe you! In it possible that I can doubt your word? Is it

possible that Barbarina tells an untruth to her fond and faithful

sister? that she shrouds her heart, and will not allow Marietta to

read what is written there?"

"If I did that," said Barbarina, uneasily, "it was because I shrank

from reading my own heart. Be pitiful, Marietta, do not lift the

veil; allow my poor heart to heal its wounds in peace and quiet."

"It cannot heal, sister, if we remain here," said Marietta,

trembling with suppressed tears. "Let us fly far, far away; accept

the offer of Binatelli; it is the call of God. Come, come,

Barbarina, we will return to our own Italy, to beautiful Rome.

Remain no longer in this cold north, by these icy hearts!"

"I cannot, I cannot!" cried Barbarina, with anguish. "I have no

fatherland--no home. I am no longer a Roman, no longer an Italian. I

am a wretched, homeless wanderer. Why will not my heart bleed and

die? Why am I condemned to live, and be conscious of this torture?"

"Stop, stop, my sister!" cried Marietta, wildly; "not another word!

You are right; we will not lift this fearful veil. Cover up your

heart in darkness--it will heal!"

"It will heal!" repeated Barbarina, pressing Marietta to her bosom

and weeping bitterly.

The entrance of a servant aroused them both; Barbarina turned away

to hide her weeping eyes. The servant announced a lady, who desired

anxiously to speak with the signora.

"Say to her that Barbarina is unwell, and can receive no one."

In a few moments the servant returned with a card, which he handed

to Marietta. "The lady declared she knew the signora would receive

her when she saw the card."

"Madame Cocceji," said Marietta.

Barbarina rose up hastily.

"Will you receive her?" asked Marietta.

"I will receive her."

And now a great change passed over Barbarina: all melancholy; all

languor had disappeared; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with

an engaging smile, as she advanced to greet the proud lady who stood

upon the threshold.

"Ah, generous lady, how good you are!" said Barbarina, in a slightly

mocking tone. "I have but just returned to Berlin, and you gladden

my heart again by your visit, and grant me the distinction and

privilege of receiving in my house one of the most eminent and

virtuous ladies of Berlin."

Madame Cocceji threw a contemptuous glance upon the beautiful young

woman who dared to look in her face with such smiling composure.

"I have not come, madame, to visit you, but to speak to you!"

"I do not see the distinction; we visit those with whom we wish to

speak."

"We visit those with whom we wish to speak, and who are trying to

evade an interview! I have sent to you twice, signora, and commanded

you to come to me, but you have not obeyed!"

"I am accustomed to receive those who wish to see me at my own

house," said Barbarina, quietly. "Indeed, madame, I understand your

language perhaps but poorly. Is it according to the forms of

etiquette to say, 'I have commanded you to come to me?' In my own

fair land we give a finer turn to our speech, and we beg for the

honor of a visit." As Barbarina said this, she bowed with laughing

grace to the proud woman, who gazed at her with suppressed rage.

"This is the second time I have been forced to seek an interview

with you."

"The first time, madame, you came with a petition, and I was so

happy as to be able to grant your request. May I be equally

fortunate to-day! Without doubt you come again as a petitioner,"

said Barbarina, with the cunning manner of a cat, who purrs while

she scratches.

The proud Cocceji was wounded; she frowned sternly, but suppressed

her anger. Barbarina was right--she came with a request.

"I called upon you a year ago," said she, "and implored you to cure

my son of that wild love which had fallen upon him like the fever of

madness--which made him forget his duty, his rank, his parents. I

besought you to leave Berlin, and withdraw from his sight that

magical beauty which had seduced him."

"And I declared myself ready to grant your petition," interrupted

Barbarina. "Yes, I conformed myself to your wishes, and left Berlin,

not, however, I confess, to do you a service, but because I did not

love your son; and there is nothing more dull and wearisome than to

listen to protestations of love that you cannot return. But look

you, gracious lady, that is a misfortune that pursues me at every

step. I left Berlin to escape this evil, and fled to London, to find

there the same old story of a love I could not return. I fled then

from London, to escape the danger of becoming the wife of Lord

Stuart McKenzie."

"Why did you return to Berlin?" said Madame Cocceji, in an imperious

tone.

Barbarina looked up surprised. "Madame," said she, "for that step I

am accountable to no one."

"Yes, you are accountable to me!" cried Madame Cocceji, enraged to

the utmost by Barbarina's proud composure. "You are accountable to

me--me, the mother of Cocceji! You have seduced him by your charms,

and driven him to madness. He defies his parents and the anger of

his king, and yields himself up to this shameful passion, which

covers his family with disgrace."

Barbarina uttered a cry of rage, and advanced a few steps. "Madame,"

said she, laying her hand upon the arm of Madame Cocceji, "you have

called this love shameful. You have said that an alliance with me

would disgrace your family. Take back your words, I pray you!"

"I retract nothing. I said but the truth," cried Madame Cocceji,

freeing herself from Barbarina.

"Take back your words, madame, for your own sake!" said Barbarina,

threateningly.

"I cannot, and will not!" she replied, imperiously, "and if your

pride and arrogance has not completely blinded you, in your heart

you will confess that I am right. The dancer Barbarina can never be

the daughter of the Coccejis. That would be a mockery of all

honorable customs, would cast contempt upon the graves of our

ancestors, and bring shame upon our nobility. And yet my unhappy son

dares think of this dishonor. In his insane folly, he rushed madly

from my presence, uttering words of rage and bitter reproach,

because I tried to show him that this marriage was impossible."

"Ah, I love him for this!" cried Barbarina, with a genial smile.

Without regarding her, Madame Cocceji went on: "Even against his

father, he has dared to oppose himself. He defies the anger of his

king. Oh, signora, in the anguish of my soul I turn to you; have

pity with me and with my most unhappy son! He is lost; he will go

down to the grave dishonored, if you do not come to my help! If,

indeed, you love him, your love will teach you to make the offering

of self-sacrifice, and I will bless you, and forgive you all the

anguish you have caused me. If you love him not, you will not be so

cruel as to bury the happiness and honor of a whole family because

of your lofty ambition and your relentless will. Hear my prayer--

leave this city, and go so far away that my son can never follow,

never reach you!"

"Then I must go into my grave," said Barbarina; "there is no other

refuge to which, if he truly loves, he cannot follow me. I, dear

madame, cannot, like yourself, move unknown and unregarded through

the world. My fame is the herald which announces my presence in

every land, and every city offers me, with bended knee, the keys of

her gates and the keys of her heart. I cannot hide myself. Nothing

is known of the proud and noble family of Cocceji outside of

Prussia; but the wide, wide world knows of the Barbarina, and the

laurel-wreaths with which I have been crowned in every land have

never been desecrated by an unworthy act or an impure thought. There

is nothing in my life of which I repent, nothing for which I blush

or am ashamed! And yet you have dared to reproach me--you have had

the audacity to seek to humiliate me in my own house."

"You forget with whom you have the honor to speak."

"You, madame, were the first to forget yourself; I follow your

example. I suppose Madame Cocceji knows and does ever that which is

great and right. I said you had vilified me in my own house, and yet

you ask of me an act of magnanimity! Why should I relinquish your

son's love?"

"Why? Because there remains even yet, perhaps, a spark of honorable

feeling in your bosom. Because you know that my family will never

receive you, but will curse and abhor you, if you dare to entice my

son into a marriage. Because you know that the Prussian nobles, the

king himself, are on my side. The king, signora, no longer favors

you; the king has promised us his assistance. The king will use

every means of grace and power to prevent a marriage, which he

himself has written to me will cover my son with dishonor!"

[Footnote: Schneider, "History of the Opera in Berlin."]

"That is false!" cried Barbarina.

"It is true! and it is true that the king, in order to protect the

house of Cocceji from this shame, has given my husband authority to

arrest my son and cast him into prison, provided my prayers and

tears and menaces should be of no avail! If we fail, we will make

use of this authority, and give him over to General Hake. [Footnote:

Ibid.] Think well what you do--do not drive us to this extremity. I

say there is a point at which even a mother's love will fail, and

the head of our house will act with all the sternness which the law

and the king permit. Go, then, Signora Barbarina--bow your proud

head--leave Berlin. Return to your own land. I repeat to you, do not

drive us to extremity!"

Barbarina listened to this with cool and mocking composure. Not a

muscle of her face moved--she was indeed striking in her majesty and

her beauty. Her imposing bearing, her pallid but clear complexion,

her crimson, tightly-compressed lips, her great, fiery eyes, which

spoke the scorn and contempt her proud lips disdained to utter, made

a picture never to be forgotten.

"Madame," said she, slowly, emphasizing every word, "you have,

indeed, driven ME to extremity. It was not my intention to marry

your son. But your conduct has now made that a point of honor. Now,

madame, I will graciously yield to the passionate entreaties of your

son, and I will wed him."

"That is to say, you will force my husband to make use of the power

the king has given him?"

Barbarina shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "Arrest your son,

and cast him into prison, you will thereby add a new celebrity to

your name, and quench the last spark of piety and obedience in his

heart. Love has wings, and will follow him everywhere, and will waft

him to the altar, where he will wed Barbarina. Neither your curse,

nor your arrest, nor the will of the king, will now protect him.

Before six months are over, will Barbarina the dancer be the wife of

Cocceji."

"Never, never shall that be!" cried Madame Cocceji, trembling with

rage.

"That will be!" said Barbarina, smiling sadly, and bending low. "And

now, madame, I think you have attained the object of your visit, and

we have nothing more to say to each other. It only remains for me to

commend myself to your grace and courtesy, and to thank you for the

honor of your visit. Allow me to call my servant, to conduct you to

your carriage."

She rang and commanded the servant to open the folding doors, and

carry the large muff of the countess to the carriage. Madame Cocceji

was pale with rage. She wished to remain incognito, and now her name

had been called before the servant. All Berlin would know before

night that she had visited Barbarina!

"Give me my muff," she said impatiently to the servant; "it is not

necessary you should carry it. I came on foot."

"On foot?" said Barbarina, laughing merrily. "Truly, you wished to

remain incognito, and you would not leave your equipage with its

coat of arms, standing before my door! I thank you once more for the

honor of your visit, and commend myself to you with the glad wish

that we may meet again."

"Never more!" said Madame Cocceji, casting a withering look upon the

gay dancer, and hastening from the room.

CHAPTER VIII.

VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire was now a continuous guest of King Frederick. The latter

had written a letter to Louis the Fifteenth, and begged him to

relinquish his subject and historian, and this request was supposed

to be acceded to. Besides this, the king, who was ever thoughtful of

the happiness and comfort of his friends, had proposed to Madame

Denis, Voltaire's beloved niece, to follow her uncle to Berlin,

dwell in the royal castle at Potsdam, and accept from him an annuity

of four thousand francs.

Voltaire himself besought her to come. He wrote to her that, as she

had lived contentedly with her husband in Landau, she could surely

be happy in Berlin and Potsdam. Berlin was certainly a much more

beautiful city than Landau, and at Potsdam they could lead an

agreeable and unceremonious life. "In Potsdam there are no

tumultuous feasts. My soul rests, dreams, and works. I am content to

find myself with a king who has neither a court nor a ministry.

Truly, Potsdam is infested by many whiskered grenadiers, but, thank

Heaven, I see little of them. I work peacefully in my room, while

the drums beat without. I have withdrawn from the dinners of the

king; there were too many princes and generals there. I could not

accustom myself to be always vis-a-vis with a king and en ceremonie.

But I sup with him--the suppers are shorter, gayer, and healthier. I

would die with indigestion in three months if I dined every day in

public with a king." [Footnote: OEuvres Completes, p. 360]

Madame Denis, however, seemed to doubt the happy life of Berlin and

Potsdam. She wrote, declining the proposition, and expressing her

fears that Voltaire would himself soon repent that he had left

beautiful, glittering Paris, the capital of luxury and good taste,

and taken refuge in a barbaric land, to be the slave of a king,

while, in Paris, he had been the king of poetry.

Voltaire had the audacity to bring this letter to the king--perhaps

to wound him, perhaps to draw from him further promises and

assurances.

Frederick read the letter; his brow did not become clouded, and the

friendly smile did not vanish from his lips. When he had read it to

the end, he returned it, and his eyes met the distrustful, lowering

glance of Voltaire with an expression of such goodness and candor

that the latter cast his eyes ashamed to the ground.

"If I were Madame Denis," said Frederick, "I would think as she

does; but, being myself, I view these things differently. I would be

in despair if I had occasioned the unhappiness of a friend; and it

will not be possible for me to allow trouble or sorrow to fall upon

a man whom I esteem, whom I love, and who has sacrificed for me his

fatherland and all that men hold most dear. If I could believe that

your residence here could be to your disadvantage, I would be the

first to counsel you to give it up. I know I would think more of

your happiness than I would of the joy of having you with me. We are

philosophers. What is more natural, more simple, than that two

philosophers, who seem made for each other--who have the same

studies, the same tastes, the same mode of thinking--should grant

themselves the satisfaction of living together? I honor you as my

teacher of eloquence and poetry; I love you as a virtuous and

sympathetic friend. What sort of bondage, what misfortunes, what

changes have you to fear in a realm where you are as highly honored

as in your fatherland--where you have a powerful friend who advances

to meet you with a thankful heart? I am not so prejudiced and

foolish as to consider Berlin as handsome as Paris. If good taste

has found a home in the world, I confess it is in Paris. But you,

Voltaire, will you not inaugurate good taste wherever you are? We

have organs sufficiently developed to applaud you; and, as to love,

we will not allow any other land superiority in that respect. I

yielded to the friendship which bound you to the Marquise du

Chatelet, but I was, next to her, your oldest friend. How, when you

have sought an asylum in my house, can it ever be THOUGHT it will

become your prison? How, being your friend, can I ever become your

tyrant? I do not understand this. I am convinced that, as long as I

live, you will be happy here. You will be honored as the father of

literature, and you will ever find in me that assistance and

sympathy which a man of your worth has a right to demand of all who

honor and appreciate him." [Footnote: The king's own words.--Oeuvres

Posthumes.]