ch other. The English ambassador,
Mitchell, who knew that the King of Prussia was constantly writing to
Voltaire with the greatest freedom on the most important subjects, was
amazed to hear his Majesty designate this highly favored correspondent
as a bad-hearted fellow, the greatest rascal on the face of the earth.
And the language which the poet held about the King was not much more
respectful.

It would probably have puzzled Voltaire himself to say what was his real
feeling towards Frederic. It was compounded of all sentiments, from
enmity to friendship, and from scorn to admiration; and the proportions
in which these elements were mixed changed every moment. The old
patriarch resembled the spoiled child who screams, stamps, cuffs,
laughs, kisses, and cuddles within one quarter of an hour. His
resentment was not extinguished; yet he was not without sympathy for his
old friend. As a Frenchman, he wished success to the arms, of his
country. As a philosopher, he was anxious for the stability of a throne
on which a philosopher sat. He longed both to save and to humble
Frederic. There was one way, and only one, in which all his conflicting
feelings could at once be gratified. If Frederic were preserved by the
interference of France, if it were known that for that interference he
was indebted to the mediation of Voltaire, this would indeed be
delicious revenge; this would indeed be to heap coals of fire on that
haughty head. Nor did the vain and restless poet think it impossible
that he might, from his hermitage near the Alps, dictate peace to
Europe. D'Estrees had quitted Hanover, and the command of the French
army had been entrusted to the Duke of Richelieu, a man whose chief
distinction was derived from his success in gallantry. Richelieu was in
truth the most eminent of that race of seducers by profession, who
furnished Crebillon the younger and La Clos with models for their
heroes. In his earlier days the royal house itself had not been secure
from his presumptuous love. He was believed to have carried his
conquests into the family of Orleans; and some suspected that he was not
unconcerned in the mysterious remorse which embittered the last hours of
the charming mother of Louis the Fifteenth. But the Duke was now sixty
years old. With a heart deeply corrupted by vice, a head long accustomed
to think only on trifles, an impaired constitution, an impaired fortune,
and, worst of all, a very red nose, he was entering on a