“La Mettrie, I will give you to-morrow nothing but grouse and truffles to eat:  woe to you, then, if the day after you do not write me just such a comedy as Moliere’s!  But we entirely forget that the marquis owes us the conclusion of his story; we left him a Knight of Malta, and we cannot abandon him in this position; that would be to condemn him to piety and virtue.  Go on, dear marquis, we have thrown the salt and banished the demons—­go on, then, with your history.”

“Well,” said the marquis, “to relate it is less dangerous than to live through it.  I must confess, however, that the perils of life have also their charms.  I wished, as I had the honor to say to you, to witness a religious service in the great mosque at Constantinople, and by my prayers, supported by a handful of gold pieces, I succeeded in convincing the Turk, who had the care of the key to the superb Sophia, that it was not an unpardonable sin to allow an unbelieving Christian to witness the holy worship of an unbelieving Mussulman.  Indeed, he risked nothing but the bastinado; while I, if discovered, would be given over to the hangman, and could only escape my fate by becoming a Mussulman.”

“What an earnest and profitable Christian Holy Mother Church would thus have lost in the author of Les Lettres Juives!” said Frederick, laughing.

“But what an exquisite harem the city of Constantinople would have won!” cried Voltaire.

“What a happiness for you, my Lord Marshal, that your beautiful Mohammedan was not then born; the marquis would without doubt have bought her from you!”

“If Zuleima will allow herself to be bought, there will be nothing to pay,” said Lord Marshal, with a soft smile.

“You are right, my lord,” said the marquis, with a meaning side glance at Voltaire, “you are right; nothing is more despicable than the friendship which can be purchased.”

“You succeeded, however, in bribing the good Mussulman,” said Algarotti, “and enjoyed the unheard-of happiness of witnessing their worship.”

“Yes, the night before a grand fete, my Turk led me to the mosque, and hid me behind a great picture which was placed before one of the doors of the tribune.  This was seemingly a safe hiding-place.  The tribune was not used, and years had passed since the door had been opened.  It lay, too, upon the southern side of the mosque, and you know that the worshippers of Mohammed must ever turn their faces toward Mecca, that is, to the morning sun; I was sure, therefore, that none of these pious unbelievers would ever look toward me.  From my concealment I could with entire comfort observe all that passed; but I made my Turk most unhappy in the eagerness of my curiosity.  I sometimes stepped from behind my picture, and leaned a little over the railing.  My poor Mussulman entreated me with such a piteous mien, and pointed to the soles of his feet with such anguish, that I was forced to take pity on him and withdraw into my