“Sire, mine is a simple little history, such as is daily acted out in this weary world.  We are all, however, proud to think that none have suffered as we have done.  There are many living hearts covered as with a gravestone, under which every earthly happiness is shrouded, but the world is ignorant, and goes laughing by.  My heart has bled in secret, and my happiness is a remembrance; my life once promised to be bright and clear as the golden morning sun.  The future beckoned to me with a thousand glorious promises and greeted me with winning, magic smiles.  I saw a young, lovely, innocent, modest maiden, like a spring rose, with heaven’s dew still hanging untouched upon its soft leaves.  I saw and loved; it seemed to me God had sent me in her His most wondrous revelation.  I loved, I worshipped her.  She was the daughter of a distinguished French noble.  I went to Paris, a young and modest man, highly commended to many influential and powerful families of the court.  We met daily; at first with wonder and surprise; then, with deep emotion, we heard each other’s voices without daring to speak together; and then, at last, I no longer dared to utter a word in her presence, because my voice trembled and I could not control it.  One day, as we sat silently next each other in a large assembly, I murmured in low, broken tones:  ‘If I dared to love you, would you forgive me?’ She did not look up, but she said, ‘I should be happy.’  We then sank again into our accustomed silence, only looking from time to time into each other’s happy eyes.  This lasted six weeks, six weeks of silent but inexpressible happiness.  At last I overcame my timidity and made known the sweet mystery of my love.  I demanded the hand of my Victoire from her father; he gave a cheerful consent, and led me to my beloved.  I pressed her to my heart, drunk with excess of joy.  At this moment her grandmother entered with a stern face and scornful glance.  She asked if I was a Protestant.  This fearful question waked me from my dream of bliss.  In the rapture of the last few months I had thought of nothing but my love.  Love had become my religion, and I needed no other influence to lead me to worship God.  But this, alas, was not sufficient!  I declared myself a Protestant.  Victoire uttered a cry of anguish, and sank insensible into her father’s arms.  Two days afterward I left France.  Victoire would not see me, and refused my hand.  I returned to England, broken-hearted, desperate, almost insane.  In this delirium of grief I joined ’the Pretender,’ and undertook for him and his cause the wildest and most dangerous adventures, which ended, at last, in my being captured and condemned to the block.  This, your majesty, was the only love of my life.  You see I had, indeed, but little to relate.”

Frederick said nothing, and no one dared to break the silence.  Even Voltaire repressed the malicious jest which played upon his lip, and was forced to content himself with a mocking smile.