“And never will, sire.”
“Let us be thankful that a part of their energy is put into efforts to save life. I have cause to be grateful for that, because but for the new discovery of the Jesuits’ bark, I would have died of fever this winter. Even the Empress Queen would have pitied me if she had seen me in my paroxysms of burning fever and shivering cold. The Jesuits’ bark, though, has helped me.”
The conversation continued for hours. St. Arnaud seemed to exercise a charmed spell over Frederick, and when he laughingly owned up to a weakness for making verses, Frederick cried out with delight:
“Now have I found a man who can both fight and write. Nature had not made up her mind whether I should be a soldier or a poet or a musician when she thrust me into this world. Fate decided the question for her, but Nature will still be heard. I have made bushels of verses this last autumn, in spite of Rosbach and Leuthen. And my flute is always in my pocket, though not often at my mouth.”
Gavin could remain silent no longer. He cried out:
“And, your Majesty, St. Arnaud still plays the harpsichord. Don’t you remember the night you took us prisoners how beautifully he played and sang too?”
Frederick, who was in high good humour, laughed extremely at this, exchanging significant glances with St. Arnaud, who said:
“Pray, pardon him, sire. He has not much experience with sovereigns.”
“That’s true,” responded Gavin; “but then, your Majesty, when one has had a man’s hand on his coat collar, and has been dragged through broken glass, as I was by you, it makes one feel well acquainted with that man, even if he be a king.”
An aide-de-camp, walking up and down the corridor outside the door, stopped another young officer, going in an opposite direction, whispering: