There had reigned in Babylon, for the space of fifteen hundred years, a violent contest that had divided the empire into two sects.  The one pretended that they ought to enter the temple of Mitra with the left foot foremost; the other held this custom in detestation and always entered with the right foot first.  The people waited with great impatience for the day on which the solemn feast of the sacred fire was to be celebrated, to see which sect Zadig would favor.  All the world had their eyes fixed on his two feet, and the whole city was in the utmost suspense and perturbation.  Zadig jumped into the temple with his feet joined together, and afterwards proved, in an eloquent discourse, that the Sovereign of heaven and earth, who accepted not the persons of men, makes no distinction between the right and left foot.  The envious man and his wife alleged that his discourse was not figurative enough, and that he did not make the rocks and mountains to dance with sufficient agility.

“He is dry.” said they, “and void of genius:  he does not make the flea to fly, and stars to fall, nor the sun to melt wax; he has not the true Oriental style.”  Zadig contented himself with having the style of reason.  All the world favored him, not because he was in the right road or followed the dictates of reason, or was a man of real merit, but because he was prime vizier.

He terminated with the same happy address the grand difference between the white and the black magi.  The former maintained that it was the height of impiety to pray to God with the face turned toward the east in winter; the latter asserted that God abhorred the prayers of those who turned toward the west in summer.  Zadig decreed that every man should be allowed to turn as he pleased.

Thus he found out the happy secret of finishing all affairs, whether of a private or a public nature, in the morning.  The rest of the day he employed in superintending and promoting the embellishments of Babylon.  He exhibited tragedies that drew tears from the eyes of the spectators, and comedies that shook their sides with laughter; a custom which had long been disused, and which his good taste now induced him to revive.  He never affected to be more knowing in the polite arts than the artists themselves; he encouraged them by rewards and honors, and was never jealous of their talents.  In the evening the king was highly entertained with his conversation, and the queen still more.  “Great minister!” said the king.  “Amiable minister!” said the queen; and both of them added, “It would have been a great loss to the state had such a man been hanged.”

Never was a man in power obliged to give so many audiences to the ladies.  Most of them came to consult him about no business at all, that so they might have some business with him.  But none of them won his attention.

Meanwhile Zadig perceived that his thoughts were always distracted, as well when he gave audience as when he sat in judgment.  He did not know to what to attribute this absence of mind; and that was his only sorrow.