D’Arnaud shrugged his shoulders and said a speech of two words did not admit of power or action.  He asked what declamation could possibly do for two insignificant words, but make them ridiculous.

This roused Voltaire’s rage to the highest pitch.  “And this utterance of two words is then beyond your ability?  It appears you cannot speak two words with proper emphasis!” [Footnote:  In a letter to Madarae Denis, Voltaire wrote:  “Tout le monde me reproche que le roi a fait dos vers pour d’Arnaud, des vers qui ne sont pas ce qu’il a fait de micux; mais songez qu’a quatre cent lieues de Paris il est bien difficile de savoir si un homme qu’on lui recommende a du merite ou non; de plus c’est toujours des vers, et bien ou mal appliques ils prouvent que le vainqueur de l’Autriche aime les belles-lettres que j’aime de tout mon coeur.  D’ailleurs D’Arnaud est un bon diable, qui par-oi par-la ne laisoe pas de rencontrer de bons tirades.  Il a du gout, il se forme, et s’il aime qu’il se deforme, il n’y a pas grand mal.  En un mot, la petite meprise du Roi de Prusse n’empeche pas qu’il ne soit le plus singulier de tous les homines.”—­Voyez “Oeuvres Completes.”]

And now, with fiery eloquence, he began to show that upon these words hung the merit of the drama; that this speech was the most important of all!  With jeers and sarcasm he drove poor D’Arnaud to the wall, who, breathless, raging, choking, could find no words nor strength to reply.  He was dumb, cast down, humiliated.

The merry laughter of the king, who greatly enjoyed the scene, and the general amusement, increased the pain of his defeat, and made the triumph of Voltaire more complete.

At last, however, the parts were well learned, and even Voltaire was content with his company.  This evening the entire court was to witness the performance of the drama, which Voltaire called his master-work.

Princess Amelia had the role of Aurelia.  She had withdrawn to her rooms, and had asked permission of the queen-mother to absent herself from dinner.  Her part was difficult, and she needed preparation and rest.

But the princess was not occupied with her role, or with the arrangement of her toilet.  She lay stretched upon the divan, and gazed with tearful eyes upon the letter which she held in her trembling hands.  Mademoiselle von Haak was kneeling near her, and looking up with tender sympathy upon the princess.

“What torture, what martyrdom I suffer!” said Amelia.  “I must laugh while my heart is filled with despair; I must take part in the pomps and fetes of this riotous court, while thick darkness is round about me.  No gleam of light, no star of hope, do I see.  Oh, Ernestine, do not ask me to be calm and silent!  Grant me at least the relief of giving expression to my sorrow.”

“Dear princess, why do you nourish your grief?  Why will you tear open the wounds of your heart once more?”

“Those wounds have never healed,” cried Amelia, passionately.  “No! they have been always bleeding—­always painful.  Do you think so pitifully of me, Ernestine, as to believe that a few years have been sufficient to teach me to forget?”