Voltaire’s face was again radiant.  “Ah! sire, no power or chains will be necessary to bind me here; your majesty’s command alone would suffice.”

“And your duty!  My gentleman of the bedchamber dare not withdraw himself for a single day without my permission.  I make you gentleman of the bedchamber.  I lay the ribbon of my order, ‘pour le merite,’ around your neck, and that I may always have a rope around you, and make you completely my prisoner, I give you an apartment in my palace at Potsdam; and that you may not feel yourself a hermit, you will have every day six covers laid for your friends; and to mock you with the appearance of liberty, you shall have your own equipage and servants, who will obey you in all things with one exception—­if you order your valet to pack up your effects, and your coachman to take the road to Paris, they will disobey.”

Voltaire heard the words of the king with breathless attention.  Sullen suspicion and discontent were written on his face.  This did not, escape the king; he understood the cause, but he said nothing.  Voltaire exhausted himself in words of joy and gratitude, but they had not the ring of truth, and the joy which his lips expressed found no echo in his face.

“I have but one other thing to add,” said Frederick, at last.  “Can your greatness pardon a poor earthworm, if he dare speak in your presence of so common and villanous a thing as money?”

Voltaire’s eyes sparkled; the subject of conversation did not seem disagreeable to him.

“You have relinquished a pension of six thousand livres in France, It is but just that you receive full compensation.  Your great spirit is certainly above all earthly considerations, but our fleshy existence has its rights.  So long as you are with me, you shall not be troubled by even a shadow of privation.  You will therefore receive a salary of five thousand thalers from me.  Your lodging and your table cost you nothing, and I think you can be very comfortable.”

Voltaire’s heart bounded for joy, but he forced himself to seem calm and indifferent.

“Your majesty has forgotten an important matter,” said he.  “You have named lodging and food, but you say nothing of light and fire.  I am an old man, and cannot produce them myself.”

“Truly said—­I find it quite in order that the great free-thinker and poet of this century is troubled for the light which should illuminate him.  You shall have twelve pounds of wax-lights every month; I think this will be sufficient for your purposes.  As for the other little necessities of life, have the goodness to apply to the castellan of the castle.  On the first day of every month he will supply them regularly.  The contract is made; you will remain with me?”

“I remain, sire!—­not for the title, or the pension, or the order—­I remain with you, because I love you.  My heart offers up to you the dream of my life, my journey to Italy.  Oh, I wish I could make greater, more dangerous sacrifices!  I wish I could find a means to prove my love, my adoration, my worship!”