“Sire, he is, in faith, a Persian.”

“A fire-worshipper, then,” said Frederick.  “Well, I propose that Voltaire shall bless this marriage; where fire is worshipped as a god, Voltaire, the man of fire and flame, may well be priest.”

“Ah, sire, I believe we are all Persians; surely we all worship the light, and turn aside from darkness.  You are to us the god Ormuzd, from whom all light proceeds; and every priest is for us as Ahriman, the god of darkness.  Be gracious to me, then, your majesty, and do not call upon me to play the role of priest even in jest.  But why does this happy son of the heathen require a priest?  Is not the sungod Ormuzd himself present?  With your majesty’s permission, we will place the loving pair upon the upper terrace of Sans-Souci, where they will be baptized in holy fire by the clear rays of the mid-day sun.  Then the divine Marianna, Cochois, and Denys will perform some mystical dance, and so the marriage will be solemnized according to Persian rites and ceremonies.”

“And then, I dare hope your majesty will give a splendid wedding-feast, where costly wines and rich and rare viands will not fail us,” said La Mettrie.

“Look, now, how his eyes sparkle with anticipated delights!” cried the king.  “La Mettrie would consent to wed every woman in the world if he could thereby spend his whole life in one continuous wedding-feast; but listen, sir, before you eat again, you have a story to relate.  Discharge this duty at once, and give us a piquant anecdote from your gay life.”

CHAPTER IV.

The confidential dinner.

“Your majesty desires a piquant anecdote out of my own life,” said La Mettrie.  “Is there any thing on earth more piquant than a truffle-pie?  Can any thing deserve more ardent praise, and fonder, sweeter remembrance, than this beautiful revelation of man’s genius?  Yes, sire, a successful truffle-pie is a sort of revealed religion, and I am its devout, consecrated priest!  One day I relinquished, for the love of it, a considerable fortune, a handsome house, and a very pretty bride, and I confess that even now a truffle-pie has more irresistible charms for me than any bride, even though richly endowed.”

“And was there ever a father mad enough to give his daughter to the ‘homme machine?’” said the king

“Sire, I had just then written my ‘Penelope.’  Monsieur van Swiet, of Leyden, a poor invalid, who had been for weeks confined to his bed by a cold, read it, and laughed so heartily over the mockery and derision at the gentlemen doctors, that he fell into a profuse perspiration—­a result which neither the art of the physicians nor the prayers of the priests had been able to accomplish.  The stiffness in his limbs was healed; in fact, he was restored to health!  His first excursion was to see me, and he implored me to suggest a mode by which he could