Voltaire wrote his answer on the foot of Frederick’s letter and continued to deny everything. The whole thing is a hideous calumny, and I am very ill! But Frederick was not moved; and the sentinel was not moved either. Fredersdorff was sent to Voltaire again—this time bearing with him the signed confession of the printer. Then the crafty Voltaire thought he had better turn the matter into a joke. A joke! On November 27th, Frederick wrote out for him a very elaborate promise to be a good boy. Voltaire did not sign it. He wrote beneath it, calling attention to its weak points instead. But, not the less, Frederick, on November 29th, was able to console Maupertuis with the news that Voltaire had been forced to give up the whole edition of the “Diatribe,” which had been solemnly burnt in the royal presence. He had also been forbidden to print the thing elsewhere. So, poor, mad, beaten Perpetual President, you can be at peace!
After an “arrest” of eight days the sentinel was removed from Voltaire’s door. He had behaved abominably. But he was very amusing—and so still infinitely worth having.
On December 10th the King announced comfortably to Maupertuis, “The affair of the libels is over.... I have frightened Voltaire on the side of his purse (by the threat of a fine), and the result is as I expected.” Before December 16th the Court came up to Berlin for Christmas. Voltaire lodged at a friend’s house, the house of M. de Francheville, whose son he employed as a temporary secretary. There seems no doubt he would have been again of that société intime, the suppers—but for one little event.
One edition of “Akakia” had been burnt; but M. de Voltaire had known very well it was not the only one. King and Court had hardly arrived at Berlin, when lo and behold! “Akakias” sprang up all over it as quickly and plentifully as mushrooms and to be far longer lived.
Berlin hated Maupertuis and enjoyed “Akakia” as it had never enjoyed anything before. The neat, staid town went mad with laughter and delight. And in his lodgings the father of “Akakia” looked thoughtfully to the future. “The orange has been squeezed—one must think now how to save the rind.” The words were written to Madame Denis on December 18th, and Voltaire, with the scales fallen at last from the sharpest eyes that ever man had, added his “little dictionary as used by kings.”
“My friend means my slave.
“My dear friend means I am more than indifferent to you.
“For I will make you happy read I will endure you as long as I have use for you.
“Sup with me to-night means I shall mock at you this evening.”
Voltaire might well feel that that three years’ dream was over, and that it remained only “to desert honestly.”