“The marquis has done wisely if he has left his heart in Paris,” said Algarotti.  “Your majesty knows that he suffers greatly with heart disease, and every girl whom he does not exactly know to be a rogue, he believes to be an angel of innocence.”

“You know,” said Rothenberg, “that shortly before his journey, his house-keeper stole his service of silver.  The marquis promised to give her the worth of the silver if she would discover the thief and restore it.  She brought it back immediately, and the marquis not only paid her the promised sum, but gave her a handsome reward for her adroitness in discovering the robber.  As D’Argens triumphantly related this affair to me, I dared to make the remark that the housekeeper was herself the rogue, the good marquis was as much exasperated with me as if I had dared to charge him with theft!  ‘Have more reverence for women,’ said he to me, gravely; ’to complain of, or accuse a woman, is a crime against God and Nature.  Women are virtuous and noble when not misled, and I cannot see who could have tempted my good house-keeper; she is, therefore, innocent.’”

All laughed heartily, but D’Argens, who cast his eyes to the ground, looking somewhat ashamed.  But the king advanced, and laying both hands upon the shoulders of the marquis, he looked into the kindly, genial face with an expression of indescribable love and confidence.

“He has the heart of a child, the intellect of a sage, and the imagination of a poet, by the grace of God,” said the king.  “If all men were like him, this earth would be no vale of tears, but a glorious paradise!  It is a real happiness to me to have you here, my dear D’Argens.  You shall take the place of the Holy Father, and bless and consecrate a small spot of earth for me.  With your pure lips you shall pray to the house gods for their blessing and protection on my hearth, and beseech them to pour a little joy and mirth into the cup of wormwood and gall which this poor life presses to our lips.  My palace of Weinberg, near Potsdam, is finished.  I will drive you there today—­you alone, marquis!  As for the others, they are light-minded, audacious, suspicious children of men, and they shall not so soon poison the air in my little paradise with their levities.  You alone, D’Argens, are worthy.  You are pure as those who lived before the fall.  You have never tasted of the ominous and death-giving apple.  You will go with me, then, to Weinberg, and when you have consecrated it, you shall relate to me the chronique scandaleuse of the French court.  Now, however, I must work!—­Fredersdorf, are my ministers here?”

“Sire, they have been an hour in the bureau.”

“Who is in the anteroom?”

“Baron Swartz, with the repertoire of the week.”

“Ah!  Swartz,” said the king, thoughtfully, “let him enter.”

Fredersdorf hastened to summon the director, and the king recommenced his careless conversation with his friends.  As the baron entered, the king stepped forward to meet him, and took a paper from his hand.  He read it with seeming indifference, but his lips were compressed and his brow clouded.