taire had occupied, Frederick's
countenance was again brightened by a smile, while that of the marquis
assumed a dark and indignant expression.

"Ah, marquis, I see from your countenance that you are acquainted with
all the monkey-tricks of my immortal friend," said the king, gayly;
"and you are indignant that so great a genius as Voltaire should have
possessed so small a soul! You think it very perfidious in Voltaire to
have joined my enemies when I was in trouble, and then to send me his
congratulations if I happened to win a victory!"

"Does your majesty know that also?" asked the astonished marquis.

"Dear marquis, have we not always good friends and servants, who take
a pleasure in telling bad news, and informing us of those things which
they know it will give us pain to hear? Even kings have such friends,
and mine eagerly acquainted me with the fact that Voltaire wished all
manner of evil might befall his friend 'Luc,' as it pleased him to
call me. Did he not write to D'Argental that he desired nothing more
fervently than my utter humiliation and the punishment of my sins, on
the same day on which he sent me an enthusiastic poem, written in
honor of my victory at Leuthen? Did he not write on another occasion to
Richelieu, that the happiest day of his life would be that on which the
French entered Berlin as conquerors, and destroyed the capital of
the treacherous king who dared to write to him twice every month the
tenderest and most flattering things, without dreaming of reinstating
him as chamberlain with the pension of six thousand thalers? He wished
that I might suffer 'la damnation eternelle,' and proudly added. 'Vous
voyez, que dans la tragedie je veux toujours que le crime soit puni.'"

"Yes," replied D'Argens, "and at the same time he wrote here to Formay:
'Votre roi est toujours un homme unique, etonnant, inimitable; il fait
des vers charmants dans de temps ou un autre ne pourrait faire un ligne
de prose, il merite d'etre heureux.'"

The king laughed aloud. "Well, and what does that prove, that Voltaire
is the greatest and most unprejudiced of poets?"

"That proves, sire, that he is a false, perfidious man, a faithless
ungrateful friend. All his great poetical gifts weigh as nothing in the
scale against the weakness and wickedness of his character. I can no
longer admire him as a poet, because I despise him so utterly as a man."

"You are too hard, marquis," said Frederick, laughing. "Voltaire has a