The king laid his hand softly on Voltaire’s shoulder, and looked earnestly in his eyes.

“Be as good a man as you are a great poet.  That is the most beautiful offering you can bring me.”

“Ah!  I see,” said Voltaire, enraged; “some one has slandered me.  Your majesty has opened your cars to my enemies, and already their hellish poison has reached your heart.  As they cannot destroy Voltaire the poet, they seize upon Voltaire the man, and slander his character because they cannot obscure his fame.  I will advance to meet them with an open visor and without a shield.  From their place of ambush, with their poisoned arrows, let them slay me.  It is better to die than to be suspected and contemned by my great and worshipped king.”

“See, now, what curious creatures you poets are!” said Frederick; “always in wild tumult and agitation; either storming heaven or hell; contending with demons, or revelling with angels!  You have no daily quiet, patience, and perseverance.  If you see a man who tells you he is planting potatoes, you do not believe him—­you convince yourself he is sowing dragons’ teeth to raise an army to contend against you.  If you meet one of your fellows with a particularly quiet aspect, you are sure you can read curses against you upon his lip.  When one begs you to be good, you look upon it as an accusation.  No, no, my poet! no one has poured the poison of slander into my ears—­no one has accused you to me.  I am, moreover, accustomed to form my own conclusions, and the opinions of others have but little weight with me.”

“But your majesty is pleased to lend your ears to my enemies,” said Voltaire, sullenly; “exactly those who attack me most virulently receive the highest honors at the hands of your majesty.  You are as cruel with me as a beautiful and ravishing coquette.  So soon as by a love-glance you have made me the happiest of men, you turn away with cold contempt, and smile alluringly upon my rivals.  I have yet two dagger-strokes in my heart, which cause me death-agony.  If your majesty would make me truly happy, you must cure the wounds with your own hands.”

“I will, if it is possible,” said the king, gravely.  “Let us hear of what you complain.”

“Sire, your majesty has made Freron your correspondent in Paris—­ Freron, my most bitter enemy, my irreconcilable adversary.  But it is not because he is my foe that I entreat you to dismiss him; you will not think so pitifully of me as to suppose that this is the reason I entreat you to dismiss him from your service.  My personal dislike will not make me blind to the worth of Freron as a writer.  No, sire, Freron is not worthy of your favor; he is an openly dishonored scoundrel, who has committed more than one common fraud.  You may imagine what an excitement it produced in Paris when it was known that you had honored this scamp with a position which should be filled by a man of wisdom and integrity.  Freron is only my enemy because, in spite of all entreaties, I have closed my house upon him.  I took this step for reasons which should have closed the doors of every respectable house against him. [Footnote:  Voltaire’s own words.] Sire, I implore you, do not let the world believe for a single day longer that Freron is your correspondent.  Dismiss him at once from your service.”