“Ah, I understand,” said Voltaire, whose countenance became clearer, “You will borrow for me, from your friend, the coat of his master?”

“Yes, if your excellency is not offended at my proposal?”

“On the contrary, I find the idea capital.  Go, Tripot, and borrow the coat of Fromery.”

Voltaire returned once more to his distinguished guests, and enraptured them again by his witty slanders and brilliant conversation.  As the last visitor departed, he rang for his servant.

“Well, Tripot, have you the coat?”

“I have, your excellency.”

Voltaire rubbed his hands with delight.  “It seems this is a happy day for me—­I make the most advantageous business arrangements.”

“But it will be necessary for your grace to try on this coat.  I fear it is too large; since I saw Fromery, he has grown fat.”

“The ass!” cried Voltaire.  “How does he dare to fatten, when all the people of intellect and celebrity, like myself, grow thinner every day?” So saying, he put on the coat of the merchant Fromery.  “Yes, truly, it is far too large for me.  Oh, oh! to think that the coat of a pitiful Dutch tradesman is too large for the great French poet!  Well, that is because these Dutch barbarians think of nothing but gormandizing.  They puff up their gross bodies with common food, and they daily become fatter; but the spirit suffers.  Miserable slaves of their appetites, they are of no use themselves, and their coats are also useless!”

“Does your excellency believe that it is impossible to wear the coat?”

“Do I believe it is impossible?  Look at me!  Do I not look like a hungry heir in the testamentary coat of his rich cousin the brewer?  Would it not be thought that I was a scarecrow, to drive the birds from the cornfields?”

At this moment Monsieur Pilleneure was announced.

“Good Heaven!  I forgot to countermand the tailor!” cried Tripot.

“That is fortunate!” said Voltaire, calming himself.  “God sends this tailor here to put an end to my vexations.  This coat is good and handsome, only a little too large—­the tailor will alter it immediately.”

“That will be splendid!” said Tripot.  “He will take in the seams, and to-morrow enlarge it again.”

“Not so!” cried Voltaire.  “The coat could not possibly look well; he must cut away the seams.”

“But then,” said Tripot, hesitatingly, “Fromery could never wear his coat again.”

“Fromery will learn that Voltaire has done him the honor to borrow his coat, and I think that will be a sufficient compensation.  Tell the tailor to enter.”

Thanks to the adroitness of Pilleneure, Voltaire appeared at the soiree of the queen-mother in a handsome, well-fitting black coat.  No one guessed that the mourning dress of the celebrated French writer belonged to the merchant Fromery, and that the glittering diamond agraffes in his bosom, and the costly rings on his fingers, were the property of the Jew Hirsch.  Voltaire’s eyes were more sparkling than diamonds, and the glances which he fixed upon the Princess Amelia more glowing; her pale and earnest beauty inspired him to finer wit and richer hymns of praise.