What had happened was highly characteristic both of the Poet and of the King.  Each had tried to play a trick on the other, and each had found the other out.  The French Government had been anxious to obtain an insight into the diplomatic intentions of Frederick, in an unofficial way; Voltaire had offered his services, and it had been agreed that he should write to Frederick declaring that he was obliged to leave France for a time owing to the hostility of a member of the Government, the Bishop of Mirepoix, and asking for Frederick’s hospitality.  Frederick had not been taken in:  though he had not disentangled the whole plot, he had perceived clearly enough that Voltaire’s visit was in reality that of an agent of the French Government; he also thought he saw an opportunity of securing the desire of his heart.  Voltaire, to give verisimilitude to his story, had, in his letter to Frederick, loaded the Bishop of Mirepoix with ridicule and abuse; and Frederick now secretly sent this letter to Mirepoix himself.  His calculation was that Mirepoix would be so outraged that he would make it impossible for Voltaire ever to return to France; and in that case—­well, Voltaire would have no other course open to him but to stay where he was, in Berlin, and Madame du Chatelet would have to make the best of it.  Of course, Frederick’s plan failed, and Voltaire was duly informed by Mirepoix of what had happened.  He was naturally very angry.  He had been almost induced to stay in Berlin of his own accord, and now he found that his host had been attempting, by means of treachery and intrigue, to force him to stay there whether he liked it or not.  It was a long time before he forgave Frederick.  But the King was most anxious to patch up the quarrel; he still could not abandon the hope of ultimately securing Voltaire; and besides, he was now possessed by another and a more immediate desire—­to be allowed a glimpse of that famous and scandalous work which Voltaire kept locked in the innermost drawer of his cabinet and revealed to none but the most favoured of his intimates—­La Pucelle.

Accordingly the royal letters became more frequent and more flattering than ever; the royal hand cajoled and implored.  ’Ne me faites point injustice sur mon caractere; d’ailleurs il vous est permis de badiner sur mon sujet comme il vous plaira.’ ’La Pucelle!  La Pucelle!  La Pucelle! et encore La Pucelle!’ he exclaims.  ’Pour l’amour de Dieu, ou plus encore pour l’amour de vous-meme, envoyez-la-moi.’  And at last Voltaire was softened.  He sent off a few fragments of his Pucelle—­just enough to whet Frederick’s appetite—­and he declared himself reconciled, ‘Je vous ai aime tendrement,’ he wrote in March 1749; ’j’ai ete fache contre vous, je vous ai pardonne, et actuellement je vous aime a la folie.’  Within a year of this date his situation had undergone a complete change.  Madame du Chatelet was dead; and his position at Versailles, in spite of the friendship