"What?"
"Ah! you do not know. Then I have a good story to tell you."
"The greatest merit of a story is brevity," said the king.
"Mine is very short. On the day when your Pantagruelic[2] majesty ordered the sublime Cagliostro to pack up his alembics, spectres, and devils, it is well known that he left Berlin in his carriage, propria personâ, at twelve exactly, passed, at the same time, through each of the gates—at least, twenty thousand persons will swear to that. The guards at every gate saw the same hat, wig, carriage and horses, and you cannot convince them that on that day there were not at least six Cagliostros in the field."
All but Frederick thought the story amusing. Frederick alone did not laugh. He was in earnest about reason, and the superstition which amused Voltaire so much, filled him with indignation. "Bah!" said he, shrugging his shoulders; "that is the way with the people, Voltaire, at a time when you cast on the world the light of your torch. You have been exiled, persecuted, and imposed on in every way; yet as soon as Cagliostro comes, the people are fascinated—whenever he comes he has a triumphal march."
"Do you know," said La Mettrie, "that the noblest ladies have as much faith in Cagliostro as the merest street-walkers? I heard that story from one of the most beautiful of your court."
"I will bet it was that Von Kleist," said the king.
"You named her yourself," said La Mettrie.
"Listen how he speaks to the king," said Quintus Icilius, who had just come.
"Bah! the Von Kleist is mad," said Frederick. "She is a visionary, and has implicit faith in horoscopes and sorcery. She needs a good lesson, and had best take care. She makes the women mad, and even reduced her husband to such a state of mind that he used to sacrifice black rams to the devil, to discover the treasures buried in the Brandebourg sands."