action, but he was extremely sensitive of the reputation of his Academy and of its President, and he would certainly consider any interference on the part of Voltaire, who himself drew his wages from the royal purse, as a flagrant act of disloyalty.  But Voltaire decided to take the risk.  He had now been more than two years in Berlin, and the atmosphere of a Court was beginning to weigh upon his spirit; he was restless, he was reckless, he was spoiling for a fight; he would take on Maupertuis singly or Maupertuis and Frederick combined—­he did not much care which, and in any case he flattered himself that he would settle the hash of the President.

As a preparatory measure, he withdrew all his spare cash from Berlin, and invested it with the Duke of Wurtemberg.  ’Je mets tout doucement ordre a mes affaires,’ he told Madame Denis.  Then, on September 18, 1752, there appeared in the papers a short article entitled ’Reponse d’un Academicien de Berlin a un Academicien de Paris.’  It was a statement, deadly in its bald simplicity, its studied coldness, its concentrated force, of Koenig’s case against Maupertuis.  The President must have turned pale as he read it; but the King turned crimson.  The terrible indictment could, of course only have been written by one man, and that man was receiving a royal pension of L800 a year and carrying about a Chamberlain’s gold key in his pocket.  Frederick flew to his writing-table, and composed an indignant pamphlet which he caused to be published with the Prussian arms on the title-page.  It was a feeble work, full of exaggerated praises of Maupertuis, and of clumsy invectives against Voltaire:  the President’s reputation was gravely compared to that of Homer; the author of the ’Reponse d’un Academicien de Berlin’ was declared to be a ‘faiseur de libelles sans genie,’ an ‘imposteur effronte,’ a ‘malheureux ecrivain’ while the ‘Reponse’ itself was a ‘grossierete plate,’ whose publication was an ’action malicieuse, lache, infame,’ a ‘brigandage affreux.’  The presence of the royal insignia only intensified the futility of the outburst.  ’L’aigle, le sceptre, et la couronne,’ wrote Voltaire to Madame Denis, ’sont bien etonnes de se trouver la.’  But one thing was now certain:  the King had joined the fray.  Voltaire’s blood was up, and he was not sorry.  A kind of exaltation seized him; from this moment his course was clear—­he would do as much damage as he could, and then leave Prussia for ever.  And it so happened that just then an unexpected opportunity occurred for one of those furious onslaughts so dear to his heart, with that weapon which he knew so well how to wield.  ‘Je n’ai point de sceptre,’ he ominously shot out to Madame Denis, ‘mais j’ai une plume.’