Truly at this moment the stem master Voltaire might have been content with his royal pupil; the rhymes were good and flowed freely.  When Frederick had finished his poem, he put Voltaire’s card in his bosom and drew near to the princess.

“The poem is piquant,” said he; “read it yourself, and then ask Voltaire to read it aloud.”

Amelia looked strangely at the king, but as she read, a soft smile lighted up her lovely, melancholy face.  Bowing to her brother, she said in low tones, “I thank your highness.”

“Now give the card to Voltaire, and ask him to read it,” said the king.

Voltaire took the card, but as he read he did not smile as the princess had done—­he turned pale and pressed his lips tightly together.

“Read it,” said the king.

“I beg your pardon,” said Voltaire, who had immediately recovered his self-possession; “this little poem, so hastily composed, was not worthy of the exalted princess to whom I dared address it.  Your majesty will be graciously pleased to remember that it was born in a moment, and the next instant lost its value.  As I now read it, I find it dull and trivial.  You will not be so cruel as to force me to read aloud to your majesty that which I condemn utterly.”

“Oh, le coquin!” murmured Frederick, while Voltaire, with a profound bow, placed the card in his pocket.

When the soiree was over, and Voltaire returned to his rooms, the gay and genial expression which he had so carefully maintained during the evening disappeared; and his lips, which had smiled so kindly, muttered words of cursing and bitterness.  He ordered Tripot to arrange his writing-table and leave the room.  Being now alone, he drew the card from his bosom, and, as if to convince himself that what he saw was truth and no cruel dream, he read aloud, but with a trembling voice: 

     “On remarque, pour l’ordinaire,
      Qu’un songe eat analoque a notre caractere,
      On heros peut rever, qu’il a passe le Rhin,
      Un chien qu’il aboie a la lune;
      Un joueur, qu’il a fait fortune,
      Un voleur, qu’il a fait butin. 
      Mais que Voltaire, a l’aide d’un mensonge,
      Ose se croire roi lui que n’est qu’un faquin,
      Ma fois! c’est abuser du souge.”

“So I am already a scoundrel?” said Voltaire, grinning.  “My enemies triumph, and he who a short time since was called the wise man of the age, the Virgil of France, is nothing but a scoundrel!  This time, I confess, I merited my humiliation, and the consciousness of this increases my rage.  I am a good-humored, credulous fool.  Why was I so silly as to credit the solemn protestations of the king that I should never feel his superior rank; that he would never show himself the master?  If I dare to claim an equality with him for an instant, he swings his rod of correction, and I am bowed in the dust!  Voltaire is not the man to bow patiently.  The day shall come in which I will revenge with rich interest the degradation of this evening.  But enough of anger and excitement.  I will sleep; perhaps in happy dreams I shall wander from the chilly borders of the Spree to my own beautiful Paris.”