began to have the opportunity of inspecting that figure in the flesh with his own sharp eyes.  The friends met three or four times, and it is noticeable that after each meeting there is a distinct coolness on the part of Frederick.  He writes with a sudden brusqueness to accuse Voltaire of showing about his manuscripts, which, he says, had only been sent him on the condition of un secret inviolable.  He writes to Jordan complaining of Voltaire’s avarice in very stringent terms.  ’Ton avare boira la lie de son insatiable desir de s’enrichir ...  Son apparition de six jours me coutera par journee cinq cent cinquante ecus.  C’est bien payer un fou; jamais bouffon de grand seigneur n’eut de pareils gages.’  He declares that ’la cervelle du poete est aussi legere que le style de ses ouvrages,’ and remarks sarcastically that he is indeed a man extraordinaire en tout.

Yet, while his opinion of Voltaire’s character was rapidly growing more and more severe, his admiration of his talents remained undiminished.  For, though he had dropped metaphysics when he came to the throne, Frederick could never drop his passion for French poetry; he recognised in Voltaire the unapproachable master of that absorbing art; and for years he had made up his mind that, some day or other, he would posseder—­for so he put it—­the author of the Henriade, would keep him at Berlin as the brightest ornament of his court, and, above all, would have him always ready at hand to put the final polish on his own verses.  In the autumn of 1743 it seemed for a moment that his wish would be gratified.  Voltaire spent a visit of several weeks in Berlin; he was dazzled by the graciousness of his reception and the splendour of his surroundings; and he began to listen to the honeyed overtures of the Prussian Majesty.  The great obstacle to Frederick’s desire was Voltaire’s relationship with Madame du Chatelet.  He had lived with her for more than ten years; he was attached to her by all the ties of friendship and gratitude; he had constantly declared that he would never leave her—­no, not for all the seductions of princes.  She would, it is true, have been willing to accompany Voltaire to Berlin; but such a solution would by no means have suited Frederick.  He was not fond of ladies—­even of ladies like Madame du Chatelet—­learned enough to translate Newton and to discuss by the hour the niceties of the Leibnitzian philosophy; and he had determined to posseder Voltaire either completely or not at all.  Voltaire, in spite of repeated temptations, had remained faithful; but now, for the first time, poor Madame du Chatelet began to be seriously alarmed.  His letters from Berlin grew fewer and fewer, and more and more ambiguous; she knew nothing of his plans; ‘il est ivre absolument’ she burst out in her distress to d’Argental, one of his oldest friends.  By every post she dreaded to learn at last that he had deserted her for ever.  But suddenly Voltaire returned.  The spell of Berlin had been broken, and he was at her feet once more.