“A wonderful idea!” cried Voltaire, “to carry off a priest in his vestments and make a soldier of him; but say, now, abbe, could you not, at least, have taken your housekeeper with you?  I dare say she was young and pretty.”

“I do not know,” said Bastiani; “I am, as you know, very short-sighted, and I never looked upon her face; but it was a great misfortune for a priest to be torn from the Tyrolese mountains and changed into a soldier.  But now, I look upon this as my greatest good fortune; by this means were the eyes of my exalted king fixed upon me; he was gracious, and honored me with his condescending friendship.”

“You forget there is no king here, and that here no man must be flattered,” said Frederick, frowning.

“Sire, I know there is no king present, and that proves I am no flatterer.  I speak of my love and admiration to my king, but not to his face.  I praise and exalt him behind his back; that shows that I love him dearly, not for honor or favor, but out of a pure heart fervently.”

“What happiness for your pure and unselfish heart, that your place of canonary of Breslau brings in three thousand thalers! otherwise your love, which does not understand flattery, might leave you in the lurch; you might be hungry.”

“He that eats of the bread of the Lord shall never hunger,” said Bastiani, in a low and solemn voice;” he that will serve two masters will be faithful to neither, and may fear to be hungry.”

“Oh, oh! look at our pious abbe, who throws off his sheep’s skin and turns the rough side out,” cried Voltaire, “It is written, ’The sheep shall be turned into wolves,’ and you, dear abbe, in your piety fulfil this prophecy.”

“Your witty illusions are meant for me because I am the historian of the King of France, and gentleman of the bed-chamber to the King of Prussia.  Compose yourself.  As historian to the King of France, I have no pension, and his majesty of Prussia will tell you that I am the most useless of servants that the sun of royal favor ever shone upon.  Yes, truly, I am a poor, modest, trifling, good-for-nothing creature; and if his majesty did not allow me, from time to time, to read his verses and rejoice in their beauty, and here and there to add a comma, I should be as useless a being as that Catholic priest stationed at Dresden, at the court of King Augustus, who has nothing to do—­no man or woman to confess—­there, as here, every man being a Lutheran.  Algarotti told me he asked him once how he occupied himself.  The worthy abbe answered:  ’Io sono il cattolica di sua maesta.’  So I will call myself, ‘Il pedagogue di sua, maesta.’ [Footnote:  “Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire,” p. 376.] Like yourself, I serve but one master.”