“Yes, yes, I will consider the matter. But say—he is not angry with me?”
“Who?”
“The King!”
“He is not angry with you, otherwise he would have been so long ago! No, you are belated in thinking that.”
“Give me a sleeping powder, and then you can go.”
The doctor took the powder, and poured it in a glass of water.
The old man drank, but his large eyes followed the changing expressions of the doctor’s face, who looked very amused. He did not altogether trust him.
“Monsieur Voltaire,” said the doctor, “when you make a fire in the oven, draw up the small oven-shutters, else there is too much smoke. The Potsdam fire-engines would very likely be summoned.”
“Oh! That too! Well! La comedia è finita! Good-night!”
“Sic transit gloria mundi! Sleep well!”