“Still the same boisterous hot-head, the Orlando Furioso,” cried the king, laughing heartily.  “Is your skin so tender still that the needles of the little critics disturb you, and to gratify their malice will you become a mule?  If you are driven to abandon the Muses, friend, who will have the hardihood to stand by them?  No, no! do not follow in the footsteps of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; do not ’visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation;’ do not make the public of our day, and of the next century, suffer for the crimes of a few pitiful critics.  The persecutions and slanders of the envious are the tribute great merit must always pay to the world at large.  Let them rail on, but do not believe that the nations and the future will be duped by them.  Utterly disregarding the criticisms of the so-called masters of art, we of this century admire and wonder at the chefs-d’oeuvre of Greece and Rome.  The mad cry of Aeschines docs not obscure the fame of Demosthenes; and in spite of Lucian, Caesar is, and will ever remain, the greatest man the world has ever produced.  I guarantee that after your death you will be canonized, worshipped.  I humbly entreat you not to hasten the time, but be content to have the apotheosis in your pocket, and to be honored by all those who are too exalted to be envious or prejudiced.  I, Frederick, stand foremost in the ranks.” [Footnote:  The king’s own words.—­Oeuvres Posthumes.]

“Why cannot the whole world be present to hear the words of a king whom I am proud, from this day onward, to call my king?” cried Voltaire, passionately.  “Sire, I love you ardently!  I believe the gods made us for each other.  I have long loved you tenderly!  I have been angry with you, but I have forgiven you all, and I love you to madness!  There was never a weaker, frailer body than mine, but my soul is strong!  I dare to say I love you as much as I admire you! [Footnote:  Voltaire’s own words.] Verily, I hold this to be as great a conquest as the five other victories your majesty has achieved, and for which the world worships you.  From this day I will be like your faithful hound; I will lie at your feet, even though you should spurn me, and declare that you will not be my master and lord.  I will still return.  Your threshold shall be my home, and I will be content with the crumbs which fall from your table.  My fortune and my happiness shall consist in loving you!”

“I will not put your love to so hard a proof,” said the king, smiling.  “I dare hope to provide you with a more durable dwelling.  I promise you shall not be like Lazarus, feeding upon crumbs.  You shall be the rich man dispensing them.”

Here was a sort of promise and assurance which banished in some degree the nervous anxiety and distrust of Voltaire, and his countenance once more beamed with joy.  He suppressed his satisfaction, however, instantly.  He did not wish to betray to the observant eye of Frederick his selfish and miserly nature, and assumed at once a melancholy look.