"The commentary is not my own," said Poelnitz, quietly. "It is conceived by a royal master, with a diseased and unhealthy brain, if there ever was one, whenever any suspicion takes possession of him. To consider suppositions as certainties, is a mode of conduct so firmly established by the custom of courts and diplomatists, that it is pretence in you to scandalise it. I, too, learned it from kings. They are the persons who have educated me, and my vices come from the father and the son, the two Prussian monarchs I have the honor to have served. To state falsehood, to discover the truth—Frederick never acts otherwise, and is considered a great man. See what it is to be popular. Yet I am treated as a criminal because I have his errors; what a prejudice!"
Von Poelnitz insinuatingly endeavored, as well as he could, to ascertain from Consuelo what had passed between herself, the abbess, Von Trenek, the adventurers Cagliostro, Trismegistus, Saint Germain, and a number of very important persons, who, it was said, were involved in the affair. He told her, naïvely enough, that if the matter had any consistency, he would not hesitate to join in it. Consuelo at last saw that he spoke sincerely. As she knew nothing, however, there was no merit in persisting in her denial.
When the fortress gates closed on Consuelo and her pretended secret, he reflected on the course he ought to adopt in relation to her, and, in conclusion, hoping if she returned to Berlin that she would suffer her secret to be discovered, determined to vindicate her. The first sentence he said to the king on the next day Frederick interrupted.
"What has she revealed?" said he.
"Nothing, sire."
"Then do not disturb me. I forbade you to speak of her. Never utter her name again before me."
This was said in such a tone that reply was impossible. Frederick certainly suffered when he thought of Porporina, for there was in his heart and conscience a tender point which quivered, as when a pin is driven into the flesh. To shake off this painful sensation he determined to forget the matter, and had no difficulty in doing so. Eight days had not elapsed, when, thanks to his strong character and the servile conduct of those around him, he forgot that Consuelo had ever existed. She was at Spandau. The theatrical season was over, and her piano had been taken from her. The king had given orders to that effect on the evening when, thinking to gratify him, the audience had applauded her even in his presence. Prince Henry was placed under an indefinite arrest. The Abbess of Quedlimburg was very sick. The king was cruel enough to make her think Trenck had been retaken, and was again in prison. Trismegistus and Saint Germain had really disappeared, and la balayeuse no longer haunted the palace. What her apparition presaged really seemed confirmed. The youngest of the prince's brothers died of premature disease.
Added to these domestic troubles was the final dispute between Voltaire and the king. Almost all biographers have declared that Voltaire had the best of it. When we look closely at the documents, we find recorded circumstances which do honor to neither, though the most contemptible part was played by Frederick. Colder, more implacable, more selfish than Voltaire, Frederick was capable neither of envy nor hatred, and these bitter passions stripped Voltaire of a dignity the king knew how to assume. Among the bitter disputes which added, drop by drop, to the explosion, was one in which Consuelo was not named, but which prolonged the sentence of wilful oblivion pronounced on her. D'Argens was reading one evening the Parisian newspapers, in the presence of Voltaire. They mentioned the affair of M'lle Clairon, who was interrupted in her part by a spectator, who shouted out "louder." Called on to make an apology to the public, she cried out, in royal phraseology, "et vous plus bas."[11] The result was, she was sent to the Bastille for having acted with as much pride as firmness. The newspapers said that this circumstance would not deprive the public of the pleasure of seeing M'lle Clairon, because during her incarceration she would be brought under an escort from the Bastille, to play the parts of Phédre or Chimene, after which she would be returned to prison until her sentence had expired, which it was hoped and presumed would not be long.
Voltaire was very intimate with Clairon, because she had greatly contributed to the success of his dramatic works. He was indignant at the circumstance, and forgetting that a perfectly analogous circumstance was passing under his eyes, said—"This does little honor to France. The fool! to interrupt an actress in such a brutal manner—and such an actress as M'lle Clairon—stupid public! She make an apology—a lady—a charming woman! Brutes! Barbarians! The Bastile? In God's name, marquis, are you not amazed? A woman in the Bastile at this age—for a bon mot, full of mind, apropos, and taste! France, too!"
"Certainly," said the king, "La Clairon was playing Electra and Semiramis; and the public, unwilling to lose a single word, should find favor with M. de Voltaire."