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The receipts for to-day were small. There were but few letters, and the large proportion of them came from relations of the king, or from distant acquaintances. "No letter from D'Argens," said the king, smiling. "My ecclesiastic letter has accomplished the desired end, and the good marquis will arrive here to-day to rail at, and then forgive me. Ah, here is a letter from D'Alembert.
You are on the bed of purple, senator." The senator was encouraged, and went on: "Let us be good fellows." "Good devils even," said the Bishop. "I declare to you," continued the senator, "that the Marquis d'Argens, Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the philosophers in my library gilded on the edges." "Like yourself, Count," interposed the Bishop. The senator resumed:
Suddenly he stood before D'Argens and laid his hands upon his shoulders. "You are right," said he; "a new day dawns, a new sun rises upon Sans-Souci, but I fear the sun's bright face will be clouded and the day will end in storm. Voltaire is the last ideal of my youth; God grant that I may not have to cast it aside with my other vain illusions!
A lively Breslau, in comparison. The Marquis d'Argens, how exquisitely treated we shall see, is a principal figure; Excellency Mitchell, deep in very important business just now, is another. "Should you have known me again?" asked Friedrich. "Hardly, in that dress; besides, your Majesty looks thinner." A solid account of that matter, by the first man who ever understood both War and Greek.
I noticed that whenever the Marquis d'Argens chanced to let slip any equivocal expressions, all the ladies made wry faces, and the chaplain hastened to turn the conversation. This chaplain had nothing jesuitical in his appearance; he dressed in the costume of an ordinary priest, and I should never had known him if the Marquis d'Argens had not warned me.
The Marquess D'Argens was among the King's favorite companions, on account, as it should seem, of the strong opposition between their characters. The parts of D'Argens were good, and his manners those of a finished French gentleman; but his whole soul was dissolved in sloth, timidity, and self-indulgence. His was one of that abject class of minds which are superstitious without being religious.
D'Argens, who passionately loved Frederick, had been dead five years; Lord-Marshal Keith one month; and Voltaire was dying! This intelligence the king had received that very morning, from his Paris correspondent, Grimm. It was this that filled his heart with mourning. The face, that smiled so full of intelligence, was perhaps distorted with agony, and those beaming eyes were now closing in death!
"Ah, D'Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, the happiest day is that on which we take leave of life." As Frederick turned his eyes away from his friend, they fell accidentally upon a porcelain vase which stood upon a table near his secretary; he sprang hastily from his chair. "How came this vase here?" he said, in a trembling voice.
We can forgive much wickedness in men, if it is redeemed by great virtues." "Ah, sire, that is very sad," sad D'Argens, "and could only be uttered by one who had the most profound love or the greatest contempt for mankind." "Perhaps the two are combined in me," said the king. "As Christ said of the Magdalen, 'She has loved much, much will be forgiven her, so let us say of Voltaire.
The musical friends and comrades of the king had been summoned from Berlin; and that nothing might be wanting to make his happiness complete, he had called his best-beloved friend, the Marquis d'Argens, to his side. D'Argens had much to tell of the siege of Berlin and the Russians of the firm defence of the burghers-of their patriotism and their courage.
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