“A remark worthy of our pious abbe,” said Frederick; “no one knows better the protecting power of the cross than the priest who founded it.  Tell us, marquis, did your talisman protect you?  Did you become an apostate to the true faith?”

“Sire, I wished first to see their temples and their mode of worship, before I decided whether I would be an unbelieving believer or a believing unbeliever.”

“I think,” said Voltaire, “you have never been a believer, or made a convert; you have made nothing but debts.”

“That is, perhaps, because I am not a great writer, and do not understand usury and speculation,” said D’Argens, quietly.  “Besides, no courtesan made me her heir, and no mistress obtained me a pension!”

“Look now,” said the king, “our good marquis is learning from you, Voltaire; he is learning to scratch and bite.”

“Yes,” said Voltaire; “there are creatures whom all men imitate, even in their vile passions and habits; perhaps they take them for virtues.”

The face of the marquis was suffused; he rose angrily, and was about to answer, but the king laid his hand upon his arm.  “Do not reply to him; you know that our great poet changes himself sometimes into a wicked tiger, and does not understand the courtly language of men.  Do not regard him, but go on with your story.”

The king—­drew back his hand suddenly, and, seemingly by accident, touched the silver salt-cellar; it fell and scattered the salt upon the table.  The marquis uttered a light cry, and turned pale.

“Alas!” cried the king, with well-affected horror, “what a misfortune!  Quick, quick, my friends! let us use an antidote against the wiles of the demons, which our good marquis maintains springs always from an overturned salt-cellar.  Quick, quick! take each of you a pinch of salt, and throw it upon the burners of the chandeliers; listen how it crackles and splutters!  These are the evil spirits in hell-fire, are they not, marquis?  Now let each one take another pinch, and throw it, laughing merrily, over the left shoulder.  You, Voltaire, take the largest portion, and cast it from you; I think you have always too much salt, and your most beautiful poems are thereby made unpalatable.”

“Ah, sire, you speak of the salt of my wit.  No one remembers that the tears which have bathed my face have fallen upon my lips, and become crystallized into biting sarcasms.  Only the wretched and sorely tried are sharp of wit and bitter of speech.”

“Not so,” said La Mettrie; “these things are the consequence of bad digestion.  This machine is not acted upon by what you poets call spirit, and I call brain; it reacts upon itself.  When a man is melancholy, it comes from his stomach.  To be gay and cheery, to have your spirits clear and fresh, you have nothing more to do than to eat heartily and have a good digestion.  Moliere could not have written such glorious comedies if he had fed upon sour krout and old peas, instead of the woodcock, grouse, and truffles which fell to him from King Louis’s table.  Man is only a machine, nothing more.”