This little comedy was too clear to escape the king, but he seemed not to understand it.  A shadow fell upon his brow, and the expression of his face was troubled.  He wished to worship Voltaire as a noble, exalted genius, and he was pained to find him a pitiful, calculating, common man.

“You have, then, fallen under the displeasure of my brother Louis, of France?” said he.

“On the contrary, I am assured that I stand in the highest favor.  I am, indeed, honored with a most agreeable and nattering commission; and if your majesty allows, I will immediately discharge it.”

“Do so,” said Frederick, smiling.  “Lay aside every weight, that your wings may waft you into the heaven of heavens while at Sans-Souci.  You have been relieved of your pension, cast all your ballast into the scale also.”

“Sire, the Marquise de Pompadour directed me to present your majesty with her most obedient and submissive greetings, and to assure you of her reverence and heart-felt devotion.”

Frederick quietly drew his tabatiere from his vest-pocket, and slowly taking a pinch of snuff, he fixed his burning eyes upon Voltaire’s smiling and expectant face; then said, with the most complete indifference, “The Marquise de Pompadour.  Who is she?  I do not know her!”

Voltaire looked at the king astonished and questioning.

Frederick did not remark this, but went on quietly:  “Have you no other greetings for me?  Have none of the great spirits, in which Paris is so rich, remembered me?”

“I shall be careful not to mention any other greetings.  All the so-called great spirits appear so small in the presence of your exalted majesty, I fear you will not acknowledge them.”

“Not so,” said Frederick; “I gladly recognize all that is really great and worthy of renown.  Voltaire will never find a more enthusiastic admirer than I am.”

“Ah, sire, these words are a balsam which I will lay upon my breast, lacerated by the wild outcries of my critics.”

“So the critics have been giving you trouble?” said Frederick.

“Yes, sire,” said Voltaire, with the passionate scorn so peculiar to him; “they have bored their insatiable and poisonous teeth into my flesh.  They are so miserable and so pitiful, that I seem to myself miserable and pitiful as their victim, and in all humility I will ask your majesty, if such hounds are allowed to howl unpunished, would it not be better for Voltaire to creep into some den, and acknowledge the wild beasts of the forests as his brothers—­perhaps they might regard his verses as melodious barkings and howlings?”