"Does your excellency believe that it is impossible to wear the coat?"
"Do I believe it is impossible? Look at me! Do I not look like a hungry heir in the testamentary coat of his rich cousin the brewer? Would it not be thought that I was a scarecrow, to drive the birds from the cornfields?"
At this moment Monsieur Pilleneure was announced.
"Good Heaven! I forgot to countermand the tailor!" cried Tripot.
"That is fortunate!" said Voltaire, calming himself. "God sends this tailor here to put an end to my vexations. This coat is good and handsome, only a little too large—the tailor will alter it immediately."
"That will be splendid!" said Tripot. "He will take in the seams, and to-morrow enlarge it again."
"Not so!" cried Voltaire. "The coat could not possibly look well; he must cut away the seams."
"But then," said Tripot, hesitatingly, "Fromery could never wear his coat again."
"Fromery will learn that Voltaire has done him the honor to borrow his coat, and I think that will be a sufficient compensation. Tell the tailor to enter."
Thanks to the adroitness of Pilleneure, Voltaire appeared at the soiree of the queen-mother in a handsome, well-fitting black coat. No one guessed that the mourning dress of the celebrated French writer belonged to the merchant Fromery, and that the glittering diamond agraffes in his bosom, and the costly rings on his fingers, were the property of the Jew Hirsch. Voltaire's eyes were more sparkling than diamonds, and the glances which he fixed upon the Princess Amelia more glowing; her pale and earnest beauty inspired him to finer wit and richer hymns of praise.