All know that the colonel, dubbed by Frederick, Quintus Icilius, was a Frenchman, named Guilhard, an excellent and decided tactician. He was, like such characters in general, a robber and a courtier, in the full sense of the terms.
To avoid fatiguing our readers with a gallery of portraits of historical personages, we will say nothing of Algarotti. It will suffice to indicate the opinions of the guests of Frederick, during his absence; and we will say that, instead of feeling relieved of a burden by his absence, they felt very uncomfortable, and could not speak a word without looking at the half opened door through which the king had passed, and whence he probably watched them.
La Mettrie was the only exception. Remarking that the service of the table was neglected after the king's departure, he said—"On my word, I think the master of this house very neglectful in leaving us no servants or wine, and I will complain to him of the fact, if he be in that room."
He arose, and without any fear of being indiscreet, went into the next room. He returned, saying, "Nobody there. That is odd. He is just the man to go out and drill his regiment by torchlight, to promote his digestion. He is odd enough."
"Not so. You are the odd one," said Quintus Icilius, who could not accustom himself to La Mettrie's strange manners.
"Then the king is gone out," said Voltaire, beginning to breathe more freely.
"Yes, the king has gone out," said the Baron Von Poelnitz, who just came in. "I met him in the back court, with no escort but a single page. He had put on his famous incognito, the coat the color of the wall. I did not recognise him."
We must say a word of the third chamberlain, Von Poelnitz, or the reader will not understand how any one but La Mettrie could speak so slightingly of the king. The age of Poelnitz was about as problematical as his salary and duties. He was a Prussian baron; and was that roué of the regency who had been so conspicuous a member of the court of Madame la Palatine, the mother of the Duke of Orleans, the headlong gamester, the debts of whom the King of Prussia refused to pay. He was a cynical libertine, a spy, a scamp, a courtier, fed, chained, and contemned. His master scolded and paid him badly, but could not do without him, because an absolute king must always have some one at hand to do his dirty work, revenging himself for the necessity of such an attendant in the humiliation of his victim. Poelnitz was, moreover, at this time, the director of the Royal Theatre, and, as it were, a supreme attendant of Frederick's pleasures. He was a perpetual courtier. Having been the page of the last king, he added the refined vices of the regency to the cynical grossness of William, and the impertinence and severity of the military and philosophical sternness of Frederick the Great. His favor with the latter was a kind of chronic disgrace, which he took care not to shake off. Besides always playing the part of master of the dirty work, he really was not afraid of being injured by any one in his master's good opinion.
"Ah, baron, you should have followed the king, and told us afterwards whither he went. We would have made him swear on his return, if we had been able to tell him whither he went, and that we saw his acts and gestures."
"We might do better than that," said Poelnitz, laughing. "We might have been able to postpone that till to-morrow, and accounted for it by the fact of having consulted the sorcerer."