and men who are now envious and angry at my fame shall burst with rage at my fortune.  Ah, ah, it is not worth the cost to be a celebrated writer!  There are too many humiliations connected with this doubtful social position.  It gives no rank—­it is a pitiful thing in the eyes of those who have actual standing, and is only envied by those who are unnoticed and unknown.  For my own part, I am so exhausted by the discomforts of my position, I would gladly cast it from me, and make for myself what the canaille call a good thing—­an enormous fortune.  I will scrape together all the gold that is possible.  I will give for gold all the honor and freedom and fame which come to me.  I am a rich gainer in all these things by my residence with King Frederick.  He has this virtue:  he is unprejudiced, and cares nothing even for his own royal rank.  I will therefore remain in this haven, whither the storms, which have so long driven me from shore to shore, have now safely moored me.  My happiness will last just as long as God pleases.” [Footnote:  Voltaire’s own words.—­Oeuvres, p. 110.]

He laughed heartily, and took his cash-book, in which he entered receipts and expenditures.  It was Voltaire’s greatest pleasure to add up his accounts from time to time, and gloat over the growth of his fortune; to compare, day by day, his receipts and expenses, and to find that a handsome sum was almost daily placed to his credit.  The smallest necessary expenditure angered him.  With a dark frown he said to himself:  “It is unjust and mean to require of me to buy provender for my horse, and to have my carriage repaired; if the king furnishes me with an equipage, he should not allow it to be any expense to me.  The major-domo is an old miser, who cheats me every month out of some pounds of sugar and coffee, and the wax-lights are becoming thinner and poorer.  I will complain to King Frederick of all this; he must see that order prevails in his palace.”

Voltaire closed his account-book, and murmured:  “When I have an income of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, I will cease to economize.  God be praised, I have almost reached the goal!  But,” said he, impatiently, “in order to effect this, I must remain here a few years, and add my pension to my income.  Nothing must prevent this—­I must overcome every obstacle.  What! who can hinder me? my so-called friends, who naturally are my most bitter enemies?  Ha, ha! what a romantic idea of this genial king to assemble six friends around him at Sans-Souci, the most of them being authors—­that is to say, natural enemies!  I believe if two authors, two women, or two pietists, were placed alone upon a desert isle, they would forget their dependence upon each other, and commence intriguing at once.  This, alas! is humanity, and being so, one must withdraw from the poor affair advantageously and cunningly. [Footnote:  Voltaire, Oeuvres, p. 375.] No one can live peacefully in this world; least of all, in the neighborhood of a king.  It is with kings as