Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 71

"Are you insane, Tripot?" cried Voltaire. "Do you regard me as so vile a spendthrift, so brainless a fool, as to order a new coat for the sake of one evening's amus.e.m.e.nt--a coat which will cost an immense sum of money, and must then hang in the wardrobe to be destroyed by moths? In eight days this mourning will be over, and I would be several hundred francs poorer, and possess a black coat I could never wear! I will not go this evening to the soiree of the queen-mother; this is decided. I will announce myself sick. Go and countermand the tailor."

He turned to leave the room, but paused suddenly. "I cannot decline this invitation," murmured he. "It is widely known that I have promised to improvise. The world is looking on eagerly. If I do not go, or if I announce myself sick, they will say I shrink from this ordeal. My enemies will triumph!--Tripot, I am obliged to go to the soiree of the queen."

"Then the tailor must come to take your measure?"

"Fool!" cried Voltaire, stamping furiously. "I have told you I have no gold for such follies. Gather up your small amount of understanding, and think of some other expedient."

"Well, your excellency. I know a mode of escape from this embarra.s.sment, but I scarcely dare propose it."

"Speak out--any means are good which attain their object."

"Below, in the court, dwells the merchant Fromery. His servant is my very good friend. I have learned from him that his master has just purchased a beautiful black coat. I think he has about the figure of your excellency."

"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 a.s.s!" 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 appet.i.tes, 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. "G.o.d 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.

No one dared to say that this pa.s.sionate adoration offered to the princess was unbecoming and offensive to etiquette. Voltaire was the man of his age, and therefore justified in offering his worship even to a princess. He was also the favorite of the king, who allowed him privileges granted to no other man. There was one present, however, who found these words of pa.s.sion and of rapture too bold, and that one was King Frederick. He had entered noiselessly and unannounced, as was his custom, and he saw, with a derisive smile, how every one surrounded Voltaire, and all were zealous in expressing their rapture over his improvised poem, and entreating him to repeat it.

"How can I repeat what I no longer know?" said he. "An angel floated by me in the air, and, by a glance alone, she whispered words which my enraptured lips uttered as in a wild hallucination."

"The centuries to come are to be pitied if they are to be deprived of this enchanting poem," said the Princess Amelia. She had remarked the entrance of the king, knew that his eye was fixed upon her, and wished to please him by flattering his beloved favorite.

"If your royal highness thinks thus, I will now write out a poem which I had designed only to recite," said Voltaire, seating himself at the card-table; and, taking a card and pencil, he wrote with a swift hand and handed the card, bowing profoundly.

The king, who was a silent spectator of this scene, looked at the Princess Amelia, and saw that she blushed as she read, and her brow was clouded.

"Allow me, also, to read the poem of the great Voltaire, my sister,"

said the king, drawing near.

The princess handed him the card, and while Frederick read, all stood around him in respectful silence.

"This poem is sublime," said the king, smiling. He saw that the princess was no longer grave, and that Voltaire breathed freely, as if relieved from a great apprehension. "This little poem is so enchanting, that you must allow me to copy it, my sister. Go on with your conversation, messieurs, it does not disturb me."

A request from the lips of a king is a command; all exerted themselves therefore to keep up a gay and animated conversation, and to seem thoughtless and unoccupied. Frederick seated himself at the table, and read once more the poem of Voltaire, which was as follows:

"Souvent un pen de verite Se mele au plus grossier mensonge.

Cette nuit dans l'erreur d'un songe, Au rang des rois j'etais monte, Je vous aimais alors, et j'osais vous le dire, Les dieux a mon reveil ne m'ont pas tout ote, Je n'ai perdu que mon empire."

"Insolent!" cried the king, and his scornful glance wandered away to Voltaire, who was seated near the queen engaged in lively conversation. "We will damp his ardor," said he, smiling; and, taking a card, he commenced writing hastily.

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 a.n.a.loque a notre caractere, On heros peut rever, qu'il a pa.s.se 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."