Truly, Potsdam is infested by many whiskered grenadiers, but, thank Heaven, I see little of them.  I work peacefully in my room, while the drums beat without.  I have withdrawn from the dinners of the king; there were too many princes and generals there.  I could not accustom myself to be always vis-a-vis with a king and en ceremonie.  But I sup with him—­the suppers are shorter, gayer, and healthier.  I would die with indigestion in three months if I dined every day in public with a king.” [Footnote:  OEuvres Completes, p. 360]

Madame Denis, however, seemed to doubt the happy life of Berlin and Potsdam.  She wrote, declining the proposition, and expressing her fears that Voltaire would himself soon repent that he had left beautiful, glittering Paris, the capital of luxury and good taste, and taken refuge in a barbaric land, to be the slave of a king, while, in Paris, he had been the king of poetry.

Voltaire had the audacity to bring this letter to the king—­perhaps to wound him, perhaps to draw from him further promises and assurances.

Frederick read the letter; his brow did not become clouded, and the friendly smile did not vanish from his lips.  When he had read it to the end, he returned it, and his eyes met the distrustful, lowering glance of Voltaire with an expression of such goodness and candor that the latter cast his eyes ashamed to the ground.

“If I were Madame Denis,” said Frederick, “I would think as she does; but, being myself, I view these things differently.  I would be in despair if I had occasioned the unhappiness of a friend; and it will not be possible for me to allow trouble or sorrow to fall upon a man whom I esteem, whom I love, and who has sacrificed for me his fatherland and all that men hold most dear.  If I could believe that your residence here could be to your disadvantage, I would be the first to counsel you to give it up.  I know I would think more of your happiness than I would of the joy of having you with me.  We are philosophers.  What is more natural, more simple, than that two philosophers, who seem made for each other—­who have the same studies, the same tastes, the same mode of thinking—­should grant themselves the satisfaction of living together?  I honor you as my teacher of eloquence and poetry; I love you as a virtuous and sympathetic friend.  What sort of bondage, what misfortunes, what changes have you to fear in a realm where you are as highly honored as in your fatherland—­where you have a powerful friend who advances to meet you with a thankful heart?  I am not so prejudiced and foolish as to consider Berlin as handsome as Paris.  If good taste has found a home in the world, I confess it is in Paris.  But you, Voltaire, will you not inaugurate good taste wherever you are?  We have organs sufficiently developed to applaud you; and, as to love, we will not allow any other land superiority in that respect.  I yielded to the friendship which bound you to the Marquise du Chatelet, but I