Both doubted the sincerity of this friendship, and the less they believed in it the more eloquently they declaimed as to its ardor and eternity.  Each one thought to himself, “I will enjoy and profit by the fruit of this friendship, I will yield up the blossoms only.”  The blossoms, alas! were artificial, without odor and already fading, though at the first glance they looked fresh and promising.

Once, in the youthful ardor of his enthusiasm for genius, Frederick had forgotten himself so far as to kiss the hand of Voltaire. [Footnote:  Thiebault.] The proud and ambitious poet had boasted loudly of this act of devotion; for this Frederick had never forgiven him; he should have guarded it as a holy and dangerous secret in the innermost shrine of his heart.  Voltaire was angry with the king because he had lately addressed some verses to the young poet D’Arnaud, in which he was represented as the rising and Voltaire as the setting sun. [Footnote:  Oeuvres posthumes.] And yet they believed they loved each other, and were about to put their love to the severe test of uninterrupted intercourse.

The king awaited Voltaire with impatience, and now he heard the rolling of carriage-wheels, then the opening of doors, then the sound of voices.  In the first impulse of joy he sprang from his seat and advanced eagerly to meet Voltaire, but reaching the threshold of the door ho stood still and considered.  “No,” said he, “I will not go to meet him—­he would mock at me, perhaps boast of it.”  He turned back to Iris chair, and took up the book he had been reading.  And now some one tapped gently upon the door, a servant appeared and announced “Monsieur Voltaire,” and now a figure stood upon the door-sill.

This man, with a small, contracted chest, with a back bowed down by old age or infirmities; this man, with the wonderous countenance, of which no one could decide if it was the face of a satyr or a demi-god; whose eyes flashed with heavenly inspiration at one moment, and in the next glowed with demoniac fire; whose lips were distorted by the most frightful grimaces or relaxed into the most enchanting smiles—­this man is Voltaire.

As Frederick’s glance met those burning eyes, he forgot all else, his royalty, his dignity, even Voltaire’s baseness and vanity; he was to him the spirit of the age, the genius of the world, and he hastened to meet him, opened his arms wide, and pressed him tenderly to his heart.  “Welcome, welcome, my lord and master,” said the king; “I receive you, as becomes a pupil, in my school-room, surrounded by my books, whose mysterious lessons of wisdom, you, my teacher, will make clear.”

“On the contrary, sire,” said Voltaire, with a soft voice and a most enchanting smile—­“on the contrary, you receive me with all the pomp of royalty seated upon a throne, which is not yours by inheritance, but which you have conquered; upon the throne of knowledge and learning, crowned with the laurels which the gods consecrate to heroes and poets.  Alas! my eyes are dazzled by the lustre which surrounds me.  I bow in humility before this lordly head adorned by two royal crowns and reigning over two mighty kingdoms.  Receive me, sire, as an ambassador from the realm of poets, whose crown you wear with so much grace and dignity.”