"Ah! this is the first time I have caught the Solomon of the North in an untruth," cried Voltaire, eagerly. "Your soul is not like the anana, but like the wondrous southern tree which generously bears at the same time fruits and flowers; which inspires and sweetly intoxicates us with its fragrance, and at the same time strengthens and refreshes us by its celestial fruits. You, sire, are not the pupil of Apollo, you are Apollo himself!"
The king smiled, and, raising his arms to heaven, he exclaimed, with the mock pathos of a French tragedian:
"O Dieu! qui douez les poetes
De tant de sublime faveure;
Ah, rendez vos graces parfaites,
Et qu'ils soient un peu moins menteurs."
"In trying to punish me for what you are pleased to call my falsehood, your majesty proves that I have spoken the truth," cried Voltaire, eagerly. "You wish to show me that the fruit of your muse ripens slowly, and you improvise a charming quatrain that Moliere himself would be proud to have composed."
"Rendez vos graces parfaites,
Et qu'ils Boient un peu moins menteurs!"
repeated Frederick, nodding merrily to Voltaire. "Look you, friend, I am perhaps that mortal who incommodes the gods least with prayers and petitions. My first prayer to-day was for you; show, therefore, a little gratitude, and prove to me that the gods hear the earnest prayers of the faithful. Be less of a flatterer, and speak the simple truth. I desire now to look over with you my compositions of the last few days. I wish you, however, always to remember that when you write, you do so to add to the fame of your nation and to the honor of your fatherland. For myself, I scribble for my amusement; and I could easily be pardoned, if I were wise enough to burn my work as soon as it was finished. [Footnote: The king's own words.— Oeuvres Posthumes.] When a man approaches his fortieth year and makes bad verses as I do, one might say, with Moliere's 'Misanthrope'—
"'Si j'en faissis d'aussi mechants,
Je me garderais bien de les montrer aux gens.'"
"Your majesty considers yourself already too old to make verses, and you are scarcely thirty-eight: am I not then a fool, worthy of condemnation, for daring to do homage to the Muses and striving to make verses—I, the gray-haired old man who already counts fifty- six?"
"You have the privilege of the gods! you will never grow old; and the Muses and Graces, though women, must ever remain faithful to you—you understand how to lay new chains upon them."
"No, no, sire! I am too old," sighed Voltaire; "an old poet, an old lover, an old singer, and an old horse are alike useless things— good for nothing. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.—Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 364.] Well, your majesty can make me a little younger by reading me some of your verses."