Frederick stepped to his writing-desk, and, seating himself, nodded to Voltaire to be seated also.
"You must know," said the king, handing Voltaire a sheet of paper covered with verses—"you must know that I have come with six twin brothers, who desire in the name of Apollo to be baptized in the waters of Hippocrene, and the 'Henriade' is entreated to be godfather."
Voltaire took the paper and read the verses aloud. The king listened attentively, and nodded approvingly over Voltaire's glowing and passionate declamation.
"This is grand! this is sublime!" cried Voltaire. "Your majesty is a French writer, who lives by accident in Germany. You have our language wholly in your power."
Frederick raised his finger threateningly. "Friend, friend, shall I weary the gods again with my prayer?"
"Your majesty, then, wishes to hear the whole truth?"
"The whole truth!"
"Then you must allow me, sire, to read the verses once more. I read them the first time as an amateur, now I will read them as a critic."
As Voltaire now repeated the verses, he laid a sharp accent upon every word and every imperfect rhyme; scanned every line with stern precision. Sometimes when he came to a false Alexandrine, he gave himself the appearance of being absolutely unable to force his lips to utter such barbarisms; and then his eyes glowed with malicious fire, and a contemptuous smile played about his mouth.
The king's brow clouded. "I understand," said he, "the poem is utterly unworthy—good for nothing. Let us destroy it."