“And there is the Solomon of the North,” cried Voltaire—­“there is Frederick, the youngest of us all, and the wisest—­the philosopher of Sans-Souci.  There sits Apollo, son of the gods, who has descended from Olympus to be our king.”

“Let us not speak of kings,” said Frederick.  “When the sun goes down there is no king at Sans-Souci; he leaves the house and retires into another castle, God only knows where.  We are all equal and wholly sans gene.  At this table, there are no distinctions; we are seven friends, who laugh and chat freely with each other; or, if you prefer it, seven wise men.”

“This is then the Confidence-Table,” said Voltaire, “of which D’Argens has so often spoken to me, and which has seemed to me like the Round-Table of King Arthur.  Long live the Confidence-Table!”

“It shall live,” cried the king, “and we will each one honor this, our first sitting, by showing our confidence in each other.  Every one shall relate something piquant and strange of his past life, some lively anecdote, or some sweet little mystery which we dare trust to our friends, but not to our wives.  The oldest begins first.”

“I am afraid I am that,” said Voltaire, “but your majesty must confess that my heart has neither white hair nor wrinkles.  Old age is a terrible old woman who slides quietly, grinning and threatening, behind every man, and watches the moment when she dares lay upon him the mask of weary years through which he has lived and suffered.  She has, alas! fastened her wrinkled mask upon my face, but my heart is young and green, and if the women were not so short-sighted as to look only upon my outward visage, if they would condescend to look within, they would no longer call me the old Voltaire, but would love and adore me, even as they did in my youth.”

“Listen well, friends, he will no doubt tell us of some duchess who placed him upon an altar and bowed down and worshipped him.”

“No, sire, I will tell you of an injury, the bitterest I ever experienced, and which I can never forget.”

“As if he had ever forgotten an injury, unless he had revenged it threefold!” cried D’Argens.

“And chopped up his enemy for pastry and eaten him,” said La Mettrie.

“Truly, if I should eat all my enemies, I should suffer from an everlasting indigestion, and, in my despair, I might fly to La Mettrie for help.  It is well known that when you suffer from incurable diseases, you seek, at last, counsel of the quack.”

“You forget that La Mettrie is a regular physician,” said the king, with seeming earnestness.

“On the contrary, he remembered it well,” said La Mettrie, smiling.  “The best physician is the greatest quack, or the most active grave-digger, if you prefer it.”

“Silence!” said the king.  “Voltaire has the floor; he will tell us of the greatest offence he ever received.  Give attention.”