“Ah, your majesty asks too much.  I cannot adjure my fatherland, I cannot relinquish my Provence.  I am the Switzer, with his song of home; when he hears it in his own land, his heart bounds with joy; when he hears it in a strange land, his eyes fill with sorrowful tears.  So it is with the ‘beau soleil de ma Provence,’ the remembrance of it warms my heart; I think that if I were a weak old man, the sight of my beautiful sunny home would make me young and strong.  Your majesty will not ask me to abandon my land forever?”

“You love the sun of Provence, then, more than you do me,” said Frederick, with a slight frown.

“Your majesty cannot justly say that, when I have turned my back upon it, and shouted for joy when the sun of the north has cast its rays upon me.  Sire, let me pass my life under the glorious northern sun, but grant that I may die in my own land.”

“You are incomprehensible, D’Argens; how can you know when you are about to die, and when it will be time to return to your beautiful Provence?”

“It has been prophesied that I shall live to be very old, and I believe in prophecy.”

“What do you call old, marquis?  Zacharias was eighty years of ago when his youthful wife of seventy gave birth to her first child.”

“God guard me from such an over-ripe youth and such a youthful wife, sire!  I shall be content if my heart remains young till my seventieth year, and has strength to love my king and rejoice in his fame; then, sire, I shall be aged and cold, and then it will be time for the sun of Provence to shine upon me and iny grave.  When I am seventy years of age, your majesty must allow your faithful servant to remember that France is his home, and to seek his grave even where his cradle stood.”

“Seventy, marquis! and how old are you now?”

“Sire, I am still young—­forty-six years of age.  You see I have only sought a plea to remain half an eternity at the feet of your majesty.”

“You are forty-six, and you are willing to remain twenty-four years at my side.  I will then be sixty-six; that is to say, I will be hard of heart and cold of purpose.  I will despise mankind, and have no illusions.  Marquis, I believe when that time comes, I can give you up.  Let it be so!—­you remain with me till you are seventy.  Give your word of honor to this, marquis.”

“Rather will your majesty be gracious enough to promise not to dismiss me before that time?”

“I promise you, and I must have your oath in return.”

“Sire, I swear!  On that day in which I enter my seventieth year, I will send you my certificate of baptism, which you will also look upon as my funeral notice.  You will say sadly, ’The Marquis d’Argens is dead,’ and I—­I will go to ma belle Provence, and seek my grave.” [Footnote:  Thiebault, vol. i., p. 360.]

“But before this time you will become very religious, a devotee, will you not?”

“Yes, sire; that is, I shall devoutly acknowledge all your goodness to me.  I shall be the most religious worshipper of all that your majesty has done for the good of mankind, for the advancement of true knowledge, and the glory of your great name.”