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: