“We will bring it upon the stage here,” said Frederick.  “Yes, truly, this new and great work shall announce, like a flaming comet, Voltaire’s arrival in Berlin.  At the same moment in which the Berlinese see that you are at last amongst them, shall they acknowledge that you are worthy to be honored and worshipped.  In four weeks, Voltaire, shall your new tragedy be given in my palace.”

“Has your majesty, then, a French company, and such a one as may dare to represent my Catiline?”

“For the love of Voltaire will all my courtiers, and even my sister, become actors; and though a Cicero failed you in Paris, in Berlin we will surely find you one.  Have we not Voltaire who can take that role.  If no reliable director could be found in Paris, I give you permission to select from my court circle those you consider most talented and most capable as actors, and you can study their parts with them—­I myself alone excepted.  Ten years ago I wished to have your ‘Death of Caesar’ given at Rheinsberg, and I had selected a role; just then the Emperor of Germany died, and fate called me out upon the great theatre of the world, where I have since then tried to play my part worthily, and I must consecrate to this all my strength and ability.  I can play no other part!  The two roles might make a rare confusion, and strange results might follow should the King of Prussia of this morning be changed to the Cicero of the evening, utter a fulminating speech against tyrants, and call upon the noble Romans to defend their rights; while this same King of Prussia is a small tyrant, and his subjects are more like pitiful slaves than heroic Romans.  I must, therefore, confine myself to the narrow boundaries of a spectator, and applaud you as heartily in your character of Cicero as I applaud you in that of the great Voltaire.”

“And is this indeed your intention, sire?  My poor tragedy lies in my writing-desk, seemingly dead; will you awaken it to life and light?”

“It shall be given in two months, and you shall conduct it.”

Voltaire’s countenance darkened; his gay smile disappeared, and lines of selfishness and covetousness clouded the brow of the great poet.

“In two months, sire!” said he, shaking his head.  “I fear I shall not be here.  I have only come to sun myself for a few happy days in your presence.”

“And then?” said Frederick, interrupting him.

“Then I must fulfil one of the darling dreams of my whole life.  I must go to Italy, to the holy city of Rome, and kneel upon the graves of Cicero and Caesar.  I must see St. Peter’s, the Venus de Medici, and the pope.”

“You will never go to Rome,” said Frederick.  “The Holy Father will not have the happiness of converting the blasphemous Saul into the pious and believing Paul.  You will remain in Berlin; if you do not yield willingly, I must compel you to yield.  I will make you my subject; I will bind you with orders and titles; I will compel you to accept a salary from me; and then, should they seek to ravish you from me, I will have a right to withhold you from all the potentates of the world.”