“No, sire, I bring you the tragedy complete, and I wrote it in eight days.  Ah, sire, this is a tragedy you will enjoy!  You will see no lovelorn Tullia, no infirm and toothless Cicero; you will see a fearful picture of Rome, a picture at which I myself shuddered.  But, sire, when you read it, you must swear to me to read it in the same spirit in which it is written.  I have left to my collegian Crebillon all his dramatic plunder; his Catiline is a pure fiction.  I have written mine, remembering my province as an historian.  Rome is my heroine; she is the mistress for whom I would interest all Europe.  I have no other intrigue than Rome’s danger; no other material than the mad craft of Catiline, the vehemence and heroic virtue of Cicero, the jealousy of the Roman Senate, the development of the character of Caesar; no other women than that unfortunate who was seduced by Catiline because of her gentleness and amiability.  I know not, sire, if you will shudder at the fourth act, but I, the writer, trembled and shuddered.  My tragedy is not formed upon any model, it is new in nova fert animus.  Truly I know the world will rail at me for this, and the small souls gnash their teeth and howl, but my work is written with a great soul, and kindred spirits will comprehend me.  The envious and the pitiful I will at last trample under my feet.  Jupiter strove with the Titans and overcame them.  I am no Jupiter, neither are my adversaries Titans.”

While these words, in an irrepressible and powerful stream of eloquence, burst from his lips, Voltaire became another man.  His countenance was imposing in its beauty, his eyes glowed with the fire of inspiration, an enchanting smile played upon his lips, and his bowed and contracted form was proudly erect and commanding.  The king gazed upon him with admiration.  At length, Voltaire, panting for breath, was silent.  Frederick laid his two hands upon his shoulders, and looked into the glowing face with an indescribable expression of love and tenderness.

“Now,” said he, “I have again and at last found my Voltaire, my proud, inspired king of poets, my Homer, crowned with immortality!  The might of genius has torn away the mantle of the courtier, and in place of pitiful, pliant, humble words, I hear again the melodious, flashing, eloquent speech of my royal poet!  Welcome, Voltaire, welcome to Sans-Souci, whose poor philosopher is but king of men, while the spirits are subject unto you!  Ah, my all-powerful king and master, be gracious!  You possess a wondrous realm, give me at least a small province in your kingdom.”

“Sire, you mock at me,” cried Voltaire.  “I have written Caesar and Cicero for the theatre.  You, however, exhibit on the stage of the world the two greatest men of the greatest century, combined in your own person.  I have come to gaze upon this wonder; it is a far loftier drama than mine, and will be surely more nobly represented. [Footnote:  Voltaire’s own words.] Your majesty represents what you truly are, but where shall I find actors to fill the role of Caesar, Cicero, and Catiline; how shall I change the pitiful souls of the coulisse into great men; make noble Romans out of these small pasteboard heroes of the mode?  I could find no actors for my tragedy in Paris, and it shall never be unworthily represented!”