“In the meantime, however, there were still some suspicious, distrustful souls who would not admit that the growth of the Madonna’s hair was a testimony in favor of the bishop.  But these stiff-necked unbelievers, these heartless skeptics, were at last convinced.  Two days later this lovely hair had grown perceptibly; and still two days later, it hung in luxurious length and fulness over her shoulders.  No one could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin was pleased with her priest.  It had often happened that hair had turned gray, or been torn out by the roots in rage and scorn.  No one, however, can maintain that the hair grows unless we are in a happy and contented mood.  The Madonna, therefore, was pleased.  The wondrous growth of her hair enraptured the faithful, and all mankind declared that this holy image cut from a pear-tree, was the Virgin Mary, who with open eyes watched over Breslau, and whose hair grew in honor of the new Bishop Schafgotch—­he was now almost adored.  Thousands of the believers surrounded his palace and besought his blessing.  It was a beautiful picture of a shepherd and his flock.  The Madonna no longer found it necessary to make her hair grow; one miracle had sufficed, and with the full growth of her hair the archbishop had also grown into importance.”

“But your majesty has not yet named the holy saint at whose intercession this miracle was performed,” said the Marquis D’Argens.  “Graciously disclose the name, that we may pray for pardon and blessing.”

“This holy saint was my friseur” said the king, laughing.  “I made him swear that he would never betray my secret.  Every third day, in the twilight, he stole secretly to the church, and placed a new wig upon the Madonna, and withdrew the old one. [Footnote:  Authentic addition to the “History of Frederick the Second.”] You see, messieurs, that not only happiness but piety may hang on a hair, and those holy saints to whom the faithful pray were, without doubt, adroit perruquiers who understand their cue.”

“And who use it as a scourge upon the backs of the pious penitents,” said Voltaire.  “Ah, sire! your story is as wise as it is piquant—­it is another proof that you are a warrior.  You have won a spiritual battle with your miraculous wig, a battle against Holy Mother Church.”

“By which, happily, no soldiers and only a few wigs were left behind.  But see how grave and mute our very worthy abbe appears—­I believe he is envious of the miracle I performed!  And now it is your turn, Bastiani:  give us your story—­a history of some of the lovely Magdalens you have encountered.”

“Ah, sire! will not your majesty excuse me?” said the abbe, bowing low.  “My life has been the still, quiet, lonely, unostentatious life of a priest, and only the ever-blessed King Frederick William introduced storm and tempest into its even course.  That was, without doubt, God’s will; otherwise this robust and giant form which He gave me would have been in vain.  My height and strength so enraptured the emissaries of the king, that in the middle of the service before the altar, as I was reading mass, they tore me away without regarding the prayers and outcries of my flock.  I was violently borne off, and immediately enrolled as a soldier.” [Footnote:  Thiebault.]