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A head looked in at the window, and the King greeted him, “Good evening, Monsieur; so busy?”

Like a boy surprised in cribbing, the writer threw his papers into disorder, and drew half a sheet of Dutch vellum over them.

“Yes, sire, I have just finished a poem to the Emperor Kian-Loung, which is an answer to his ‘Eloge de Mukden.'”

“To the Emperor of China! You have grander acquaintances than I.”

“But you have me, sire.”

This he said with a superior air of satirising himself, as though he would make game of his own notorious vanity.

The King took the jest as it was intended. “Yes, Monsieur Voltaire belongs to my most honourable acquaintances, but I would not say to the grandest.”

“May I now read my poem to the Chinese Emperor? Do you allow me, sire?”

“Would it be any use, if I did not allow it, you pushing man?”

“Very well:

“‘Recois mes compliments, charmant roi de la Chine.'”

“But he is an Emperor.”

“Yes, but that is a politeness towards you, sire, who are only a King!”

“Only!”

“I continue:

“‘Ton trone est done place sur la double colline
On sait dans l’Occident, que malgre mes travers
J’ai toujours fort aime les rois qui font des vers!'”

“Thank you.”

“‘O toi que sur le trone un feu celeste enflamme
Des moi si ce grand art don’t nous sommes epris,
Est aussi difficile a Pekin qu’a Paris.

Ton peuple est-il soumis a cette loi si dure,
Qui vent qu’avec six pieds d’une egale mesure

De deux Alexandrins, cote a cote marchants
L’un serve pour la rime, et l’autre pour le sens?
Si bien que sans rien perdre, en bravant cet usage,
On pourrait retrancher la moitie d’un ouvrage.'”

“Bravo! Very good!” broke in the King, who felt the sting of the satire but could control himself.

“But do you think that the Emperor will understand that–at any rate as you intend it?”

“If he does not understand it, then he is a blockhead….”

“But if he does, you may expect a declaration of war.”

“China against Voltaire!”

“What would you do then?”

“I would beat them, as you do, with my troops, of course.”

“But if the Emperor has more troops than you?”

“Then I should flee, of course, like you do, sire, or I let myself be put to flight, and so save my honour as a soldier.”

The King was accustomed to Voltaire’s impertinences, and he pardoned them for the moment, but stored them in his memory.

“But now, don’t stick poking about in your room, Monsieur. Come out for a walk with me. We will philosophise in the cool of the evening. I have so much to say, and must put my thoughts in order for the great work.”

“Sire, I will come immediately.”

“No, now; I am waiting.”

Monsieur Voltaire became nervous, and began to tidy his desk; he pulled out drawers, and protracted the business. But the King stood as if on guard, and watched him. At last the old man had to stop tidying up and come out, but his limbs twitched, and he shook himself, as though he wished to shake off something. The King led him down the third terrace, and turned to the right into the park, where they found a long avenue which led to a small circular open space. Here there stood the Temple of Friendship.

There was an embarrassing silence between them, but Frederick, who had learnt self-control, was the first to find the thread which they had lost. But he had to introduce the conversation by commencing with their present surroundings.

“What a peaceful evening, Monsieur! Peace in nature and in human life! Have you noticed that there has been no war in the world for seven years–that is, since the Peace of Aachen?”

“Now I have not thought about it. Well, you can now expect the seven lean kine–I mean years.”

“Who knows! You spoke just now of Kian Loung, the peaceful prince who philosophises and writes verses on tea-plant blossoms; who serves his people and makes them happy. His neighbour Japan has enjoyed peace for a hundred years. In India the French and English are rivalling each other in trade. That is the great East, which we shall soon have to take into account–. If we consider our portion of the world, with which I reckon Egypt, the latter lies asleep under Pashas and Mamelukes. Greece, our motherland, has entered its last sleep. The Athens of Pericles is an appendage of the Sultan’s harem, and is ruled by black eunuchs. Rome, or rather Italy, is parcelled out between Lorraine, the House of Bourbon, and Savoy. But in Rome is my friend Benedict XIV; he is also a man of peace, and the first Pope, moreover, who acknowledges the King of Prussia. He tolerates Protestants, helps forward science, and has allowed latitude and longitude to be measured….”