Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 62

"Look now," said the king, "our good marquis is learning from you, Voltaire; he is learning to scratch and bite."

"Yes," said Voltaire; "there are creatures whom all men imitate, even in their vile pa.s.sions and habits; perhaps they take them for virtues."

The face of the marquis was suffused; he rose angrily, and was about to answer, but the king laid his hand upon his arm. "Do not reply to him; you know that our great poet changes himself sometimes into a wicked tiger, and does not understand the courtly language of men.

Do not regard him, but go on with your story."

The king--drew back his hand suddenly, and, seemingly by accident, touched the silver salt-cellar; it fell and scattered the salt upon the table. The marquis uttered a light cry, and turned pale.

"Alas!" cried the king, with well-affected horror, "what a misfortune! Quick, quick, my friends! let us use an antidote against the wiles of the demons, which our good marquis maintains springs always from an overturned salt-cellar. Quick, quick! take each of you a pinch of salt, and throw it upon the burners of the chandeliers; listen how it crackles and splutters! These are the evil spirits in h.e.l.l-fire, are they not, marquis? Now let each one take another pinch, and throw it, laughing merrily, over the left shoulder. You, Voltaire, take the largest portion, and cast it from you; I think you have always too much salt, and your most beautiful poems are thereby made unpalatable."

"Ah, sire, you speak of the salt of my wit. No one remembers that the tears which have bathed my face have fallen upon my lips, and become crystallized into biting sarcasms. Only the wretched and sorely tried are sharp of wit and bitter of speech."

"Not so," said La Mettrie; "these things are the consequence of bad digestion. This machine is not acted upon by what you poets call spirit, and I call brain; it reacts upon itself. When a man is melancholy, it comes from his stomach. To be gay and cheery, to have your spirits clear and fresh, you have nothing more to do than to eat heartily and have a good digestion. Moliere could not have written such glorious comedies if he had fed upon sour krout and old peas, instead of the woodc.o.c.k, grouse, and truffles which fell to him from King Louis's table. Man is only a machine, nothing more."

"La Mettrie, I will give you to-morrow nothing but grouse and truffles to eat: woe to you, then, if the day after you do not write me just such a comedy as Moliere's! But we entirely forget that the marquis owes us the conclusion of his story; we left him a Knight of Malta, and we cannot abandon him in this position; that would be to condemn him to piety and virtue. Go on, dear marquis, we have thrown the salt and banished the demons--go on, then, with your history."

"Well," said the marquis, "to relate it is less dangerous than to live through it. I must confess, however, that the perils of life have also their charms. I wished, as I had the honor to say to you, to witness a religious service in the great mosque at Constantinople, and by my prayers, supported by a handful of gold pieces, I succeeded in convincing the Turk, who had the care of the key to the superb Sophia, that it was not an unpardonable sin to allow an unbelieving Christian to witness the holy worship of an unbelieving Mussulman. Indeed, he risked nothing but the bastinado; while I, if discovered, would be given over to the hangman, and could only escape my fate by becoming a Mussulman."

"What an earnest and profitable Christian Holy Mother Church would thus have lost in the author of Les Lettres Juives!" said Frederick, laughing.

"But what an exquisite harem the city of Constantinople would have won!" cried Voltaire.

"What a happiness for you, my Lord Marshal, that your beautiful Mohammedan was not then born; the marquis would without doubt have bought her from you!"

"If Zuleima will allow herself to be bought, there will be nothing to pay," said Lord Marshal, with a soft smile.

"You are right, my lord," said the marquis, with a meaning side glance at Voltaire, "you are right; nothing is more despicable than the friendship which can be purchased."

"You succeeded, however, in bribing the good Mussulman," said Algarotti, "and enjoyed the unheard-of happiness of witnessing their worship."

"Yes, the night before a grand fete, my Turk led me to the mosque, and hid me behind a great picture which was placed before one of the doors of the tribune. This was seemingly a safe hiding-place. The tribune was not used, and years had pa.s.sed since the door had been opened. It lay, too, upon the southern side of the mosque, and you know that the worshippers of Mohammed must ever turn their faces toward Mecca, that is, to the morning sun; I was sure, therefore, that none of these pious unbelievers would ever look toward me. From my concealment I could with entire comfort observe all that pa.s.sed; but I made my Turk most unhappy in the eagerness of my curiosity. I sometimes stepped from behind my picture, and leaned a little over the railing. My poor Mussulman entreated me with such a piteous mien, and pointed to the soles of his feet with such anguish, that I was forced to take pity on him and withdraw into my concealment. But at last, in spite of the solemnities, and my own ardent piety, the animal was roused within and overcame me. I was hungry! and as I had expected this result, I had placed a good bottle of wine and some ham and fresh bread in my pocket. I now took them out, spread my treasures upon the floor, and began to breakfast. The Turk looked at me with horror, and he would not have been surprised if the roof of the holy mosque had fallen upon the Christian hound who dared to desecrate it by drinking wine and eating ham within its precincts, both of which were strictly forbidden by the prophet. But the roof did not fall, not even when I forced my Mussulman to eat ham and drink wine with me, by threatening to show myself openly if he refused. He commenced his unholy meal with dark frowns and threatening glances, ever looking up, as if he feared the sword of the prophet would cleave him asunder. Soon, however, he familiarized himself with his sin, and forgot the holy ceremonies which were being solemnized. When the service was over, and all others had left the mosque, he prayed me to wait yet a little longer, and as the best of friends, we finished the rest of my bacon and drank the last drop of my wine to the health of the prophet, laughing merrily over the dangers we had escaped. As at last we were about to separate, my good Turk was sad and thoughtful, and he confessed to me that he had the most glowing desire to become a Christian. The bacon and wine had refreshed him marvellously, and he was enthusiastic for a religion which offered such glorious food, not only for the soul, but for the body. I was too good a Christian not to encourage his holy desires. I took him into my service, and when we had left Turkey, and found ourselves on Christian soil, my Mussulman gratified the thirst of his soul, and became a son of Holy Mother Church, and felt no remorse of conscience in eating ham and drinking wine. So my visit to the holy mosque was rich in blessed consequences; it saved a soul, and my wine and my ham plucked a man from the h.e.l.l-fire of unbelief. That is, I believe, the only time I ever succeeded in making a proselyte."

"The salvation of that soul will free you from condemnation and insure your own eternal happiness. When you come to die, marquis, you dare say, 'I have not lived in vain, I have won a soul to heaven.'"

"Provided," said Voltaire, "that the bacon with which you converted the Turk was not part of one of the beasts into which the devils were cast, as is written in the Holy Scriptures. If this was so, then the newly-baked Christian has certainly eaten of everlasting d.a.m.nation."

"Let us hope that this is not so," said Frederick; "and now, my Lord Marshal, it is your turn to give us a piquant anecdote; or, if you prefer it, an heroic deed from your life, so rich in virtue, magnanimity, truth, and constancy. Ah, messieurs, let us now be thoughtful, cast down our eyes, and exalt our hearts. A virtuous man is about to speak: truly virtue is a holy G.o.ddess loved by few, to whom few altars are erected, and who has few priests in her service.

My Lord Marshal is consecrated to her altar; you may well believe this when I a.s.sure you of it--I, who have been so often deceived, and often tempted to believe no longer in the existence of virtue.

My n.o.ble Keith has forced me to be credulous. This faith comforts me, and I thank him."

With a glance of inexpressible love he gave his hand to his friend, who pressed it to his breast. The faces of all present were grave, almost stern. The words of the king were a reproach, and they felt wounded. Frederick thought not of them; he looked alone upon the n.o.ble, handsome face of Lord Marshal, not remembering that the love and consideration manifested for him might excite the envy and jealousy of his other friends.

"Now, my lord, will you commence your history, or are we too impure and sinful to listen to any of the holy mysteries of your pure life?"

"Ah, sire, there are no mysteries in my simple life; it lies like an open book before the eyes of my king, and, indeed, to all the world."

"In that pure book I am sure that all can learn wisdom and experience," said Frederick. "It is a book of rarest value, in which every n.o.bleman can learn how to be faithful to his king in dire misfortune and to the gates of death. Ah, my lord, there are few men like yourself, who can count it as imperishable fame to have been condemned to the scaffold. The Pretender must, indeed, be a most n.o.ble prince, as you were willing to give your life for him."

"He was my rightful king and lord, and I owed him allegiance. That I was condemned for him, and pardoned, and banished from England, I cannot now consider a misfortune, as I have thereby enjoyed the great happiness of being near your majesty. But you must not think too highly of my constancy to 'the Pretender;' it was not pure loyalty, and if I carelessly and rashly cast my life upon a wild chance, it was because the world had but little value for me. In the despair and anguish of my heart I should have called Death a welcome friend. Had I been happier I should have been less brave."

"And will you tell us, my lord, why you were unhappy?"

"Sire, mine is a simple little history, such as is daily acted out in this weary world. We are all, however, proud to think that none have suffered as we have done. There are many living hearts covered as with a gravestone, under which every earthly happiness is shrouded, but the world is ignorant, and goes laughing by. My heart has bled in secret, and my happiness is a remembrance; my life once promised to be bright and clear as the golden morning sun. The future beckoned to me with a thousand glorious promises and greeted me with winning, magic smiles. I saw a young, lovely, innocent, modest maiden, like a spring rose, with heaven's dew still hanging untouched upon its soft leaves. I saw and loved; it seemed to me G.o.d had sent me in her His most wondrous revelation. I loved, I worshipped her. She was the daughter of a distinguished French n.o.ble. I went to Paris, a young and modest man, highly commended to many influential and powerful families of the court. We met daily; at first with wonder and surprise; then, with deep emotion, we heard each other's voices without daring to speak together; and then, at last, I no longer dared to utter a word in her presence, because my voice trembled and I could not control it. One day, as we sat silently next each other in a large a.s.sembly, I murmured in low, broken tones: 'If I dared to love you, would you forgive me?' She did not look up, but she said, 'I should be happy.' We then sank again into our accustomed silence, only looking from time to time into each other's happy eyes. This lasted six weeks, six weeks of silent but inexpressible happiness. At last I overcame my timidity and made known the sweet mystery of my love. I demanded the hand of my Victoire from her father; he gave a cheerful consent, and led me to my beloved. I pressed her to my heart, drunk with excess of joy.

At this moment her grandmother entered with a stern face and scornful glance. She asked if I was a Protestant. This fearful question waked me from my dream of bliss. In the rapture of the last few months I had thought of nothing but my love. Love had become my religion, and I needed no other influence to lead me to worship G.o.d.

But this, alas, was not sufficient! I declared myself a Protestant.

Victoire uttered a cry of anguish, and sank insensible into her father's arms. Two days afterward I left France. Victoire would not see me, and refused my hand. I returned to England, broken-hearted, desperate, almost insane. In this delirium of grief I joined 'the Pretender,' and undertook for him and his cause the wildest and most dangerous adventures, which ended, at last, in my being captured and condemned to the block. This, your majesty, was the only love of my life. You see I had, indeed, but little to relate."

Frederick said nothing, and no one dared to break the silence. Even Voltaire repressed the malicious jest which played upon his lip, and was forced to content himself with a mocking smile.

"What were the words that your father spoke when he sent you forth as a man into the world? I think you once repeated them to me," said Frederick.

"Quand vos yeux, en naissant, s'ouvraient a la lumiere, Chacun vous souriait, mon fils, et vous pleuriez.

Vivez si bien, qu'un jour, a votre derniere heure, Chacun verse des pleurs, et qu'on vous voie sourire."

"You have fulfilled your father's wish," said the king. "You have so lived, that you can smile when all others are weeping for you, and no man who has loved can forget you. I am sure your Victoire will never forget you. Have you not seen her since that first parting?"

"Yes, sire, I have seen her once again, as I came to Prussia, after being banished forever from England. Ah, sire, that was a happy meeting after twenty years of separation. The pain and grief of love were over, but the love remained. We confessed this to each other.

In the beginning there was suffering and sorrow, then a sweet, soft remembrance of our love, for we had never ceased to think upon each other. It seems that to love faithfully and eternally it is only necessary to love truly and honorably, and then to separate. Custom and daily meeting cannot then brush the bloom from love's light wings; its source is in heaven, and it returns to the skies and shines forever and inextinguishable a star over our heads. When I looked again. upon Victoire she had been a long time married, and to the world she had, perhaps, ceased to be beautiful. To me she will be ever lovely; and as she looked upon me it seemed to me that the clouds and shadows had been lifted from my life, and my sun was shining clear. But, sire, all this has no interest for you. How tenderly I loved Victoire you will know, when I tell you that the only poem my unpoetical brain has ever produced was written for her."

"Let us hear it, my lord," said the king.

"If your majesty commands it, and Voltaire will forgive it," said Lord Marshal.

"I forgive it, my lord," cried Voltaire. "Since I listened to you I live in a land of wonders and soft enchantments, whose existence I have never even guessed, and upon whose blooming, perfumed beauty I scarcely dare open my unholy eyes. The fairy tales of my dreamy youth seem now to be true, and I hear a language which we, poor sons of France, living under the regency of the Duke of Orleans, have no knowledge of. I entreat you, my lord, let us hear your poem."

Lord Marshal bowed, and, leaning back in his chair, in a full rich voice, he recited the following verses:

"'Un trait lance par caprice M'atteignit dans mon printemps; J'en porte la cicatrice Encore, sous mes cheveux blancs.

Craignez les maux qu'amour cause, Et plaignez un insense Qui n'a point cueilli la rose, Et qui l'epine a blesse.'

[Footnote: Memoires de la Marquise de Crequi.]

"And now," said Lord Marshal rapidly, wishing to interrupt all praise and all remark as to his poem; "I have yet a confession to make, and if you have not laughed over my verses, you will surely laugh at what I now state. Out of love for my lost mistress, I became a Catholic. I thought that the faith, to which my Victoire offered up her love, must be the true religion in which all love was grounded. I wished to be hers in spirit, in life, and in death. In spirit, in truth, I am a Catholic; and now, gentlemen, you may laugh."

"Sublime!" whispered Voltaire.

"No one will smile," said the king, sternly. "Joy and peace to him who is a believer, and can lay his heart upon the cross, and feel strengthened and supported by it. He will not wander in strange and forbidden paths, as we poor, short-sighted mortals often do. Will you tell us the name of your beloved mistress, or is that a secret?"

"Sire, our love was pure and innocent; we dare avow it to the whole world. My beloved's name was Victoire de Froulay; she is now Marquise de Crequi."

"Ah, the Marquise de Crequi!" said Voltaire, with animation: "one of the wittiest and most celebrated women of Paris."

"She is still living?" said the king, thoughtfully. "would you like to meet her again, my lord?"

"Yes, your majesty, for one hour, to say to her that I am a Catholic, and that we shall meet in heaven!"

"I will send you as amba.s.sador to Paris, my lord, and you shall bear the marquise my greetings." [Footnote: Lord Marshal went to Paris, as an amba.s.sador from Prussia, in 1751.]