The king did not reply for a few moments; he walked backward and forward several times, then stood quietly before Voltaire.  The expression of his eye was stern.

“I sacrifice Freron to you,” said he, “because I will deny you nothing on this, the day of your arrival; but I repeat to you what I said before, ‘be not only a great poet, be also a good man.’”

Voltaire shook his head, sadly.  “Sire,” said he, “in your eyes I am not a great poet, only un soleil couchant.  Remember Arnaud, my pupil, whom I sent to you!”

“Aha!” cried the king, laughing, “you have, then, read my little poem to Arnaud?”

“Sire, I have read it, and that was the second dagger-stroke which I received on this journey, to which my loving heart forced my weak and shrinking body; I felt that I must see you once more before I died.  Yes, I have read this terrible poem, and the lines have burned into my heart these cruel words:” 

    ’Deja sans etre temeraire,
     Prenant votre vol jusqu’aux cieux,
     Vous pouvez egaler Voltaire,
     Et pres de Virgile et d’Homere. 
     Jouir de vos succes heureux,
     Deja l’Apollon de la France,
     S’achemine a sa decadence,
     Venez briller a votre tour,
     Elevez vous s’il brille encore;
     Ainsi le couchant d’un beau jour,
     Promet une plus belle aurore.’
 [Footnote:  Supplement des Oeuvres Posthumes.]

“Yes,” said the king, as Voltaire ceased declaiming, and stood in rather a tragic attitude before him—­“yes, I confess that a sensitive nature like yours might find a thorn in these innocent rhymes.  My only intention was to give to the little Arnaud a few roses which he might weave into a wreath of fame.  It seems I fulfilled my purpose poorly; it was high time that Voltaire should come to teach me to make better verses.  See, I confess my injustice, and I allow you to punish me by writing a poem against me, which shall be published as extensively as my little verse to Arnaud.”

“Does your majesty promise me this little revenge in earnest?”

“I promise it; give me your poem as soon as it is ready; it shall be published in ‘Formey’s Journal.’”

“Sire, it is ready:  hear it now. [Footnote:  Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire.]

    “’Quel diable de Marc Antoine! 
       Et quelle malice est le votre,
      Vous egratinez d’une main
       Lorsque vous caressez de l’autre.’”

“Ah,” said Frederick, “what a beautiful quatrain Monsieur Arouet has made.”

“Arouet!” said Voltaire, astonished,

“Well, now, you would not surely wish me to believe that this little stinging, pitiful rhyme, was written by the great Voltaire.  No, no! this is the work of the young Arouet, and we will have it published with his signature.”

Voltaire fixed his great eyes for a moment angrily upon the handsome face of the king, then bowed his head and looked down thoughtfully.  There was a pause, and his face assumed a noble expression—­he was again the great poet.