“Gentlemen,” he said, “since these ladies are not yet pleased to tell us who they are, let us, at least, try to entertain them by any means in our power. Shall I read to you my last letter from the King of Prussia, and my reply?”
Gaston and Jacques Haret at once agreed enthusiastically, and we, the masked, rose and bowed our approval. Monsieur Voltaire went to his escritoire, unlocked it, and took out two letters, which he read to us in that noble great voice of his. The one from the King of Prussia was a very good letter for a king to write. That man knew enough of mankind always to advance fine sentiments, and was a man, although a robber. Such was my master’s opinion of Frederick, known as the Great.
In reply to this letter was that celebrated one of Monsieur Voltaire’s, in which he says: “I respect metaphysical 441 ideas; rays of lightning they are in the midst of deep night. More, I think, is not to be hoped from metaphysics. It does not seem likely that the first principles of things will ever be known. The mice that nestle in some little holes in an immense building know not whether it is eternal, nor who the architect, nor why he built it. Such mice are we, and the Divine Architect who built the universe has never, that I know of, told His secret to one of us.”
Voltaire paused at this and rested his head upon his hand.
“How sad it all is!” he cried, his great gloomy eloquent eyes fixed upon the stars visible through the open doors.
There was a silence. Every person there, not excluding Monsieur Voltaire and Jacques Haret, hoped differently from this melancholy creed, but no one spoke until Jacques Haret said, with the gravity under which he disguised most of his flippancies:
“Monsieur, you can not say that the Architect of the Universe has told His secret to no one. You forget the Kirkpatricks, and especially Scotch Peg. She knows all the designs of the Supreme Being. He never dares to call a Kirkpatrick out of this world without sending a gentleman usher in the shape of a black knight or a white lady, or something of the kind, to find out whether it is agreeable to that particular Kirkpatrick to leave this world just then, I presume. There never was one of that family who did not consider himself entitled to much consideration from the Supreme Being. They are not all, however, so candid about it as Peggy is.”
Considering this direct reflection upon Francezka, I 442 looked to see Gaston Cheverny forget the presence of his host, forget the presence of the ladies, and knock Jacques Haret’s impudent head off. Not at all. His face flushed suddenly, and he turned again in his chair, but said no word, although Jacques Haret’s laughing face was thrust toward him.
Monsieur Voltaire evidently forgot, in the interest of his letters, the close connection between the Kirkpatricks and one of his guests, so he went on reading.
For my part, the impression I had got the afternoon in the gardens of the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, that Gaston Cheverny in some way was afraid of Jacques Haret, became a conviction. Francezka sat motionless. What thoughts must have passed through that quick, clear brain of hers!