Silently they passed the statue of Flora, which Frederick greeted gayly, and the marquis with profound reverence then mounted two small steps and stood upon the green circle.  The king paused and looked down thoughtfully upon a gravestone which his feet almost touched.

“Be pious and prayerful on this spot,” said he; “we stand by the grave of my most faithful friend, who is enjoying before us the happiness of everlasting sleep.  Here lies Biche!  Hat off, marquis!  She loved me, and was faithful unto death.  Who knows if I, under my statue of Flora, and you, under your vase, will merit the praise which I, with my whole soul, award to my Biche!  She was good and faithful to the end.” [Footnote:  Nicolai, “Anecdoten.”—­Heft, p. 202.]

CHAPTER II.

Voltaire and his royal friend.

The king had withdrawn to his library earlier than usual; he had attended a cabinet council, worked for an hour with his minister of state, and, after fulfilling these public duties, withdrawn gladly to his books, hoping to consume the time which crept along with leaden feet.

The king expected Voltaire; he knew he had arrived at Potsdam, where he would rest and refresh himself for a few hours, and then proceed at once to Sans-Souci.

Frederick regarded this first meeting with Voltaire, after long years of separation, with more of anxiety than of joyful impatience.  Voltaire’s arrival and residence at Sans-Souci had been the warm desire of Frederick’s heart for many years, and yet, as the time for its fulfilment drew near, the king almost trembled.  What did this mean?  How was it that this friendship, which for sixteen years had been so publicly avowed, and so zealously confirmed by private oaths and protestations, seemed now wavering and uncertain?

About now to reach the goal so ardently striven for, the king felt that he was not pleased.  A cold blast seemed to sweep over him, and fill him with sad presentiments.

Frederick was filled with wonder and admiration for the genius of the great French writer, but he knew that, as a man, Voltaire was unworthy of his friendship.  He justly feared that the realities of life and daily intercourse would fall like a cold dew upon this rare blossom of friendship between a king and a poet; this tender plant which, during so many years of separation, they had nourished and kept warm by glowing assurances and fiery declarations, must now be removed from the hot-house of imagination, where it had been excited to false growth by the eloquence of letters, and transplanted into a world of truth and soberness.

This friendship had no real foundation; it floated like a variegated phantom in the air, a fata morgana, whose glittering temple halls and pillars would soon melt away like the early cloud and the morning dew.  In these “cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces,” the two great freethinkers and genial philosophers of their century intended to cultivate and enjoy their friendship.  In these temples of air they wished to embrace each other, but the two-edged sword of mistrust and suspicion already flashed between them, and both felt inclined to draw back.