“Beautiful, wondrous beautiful!” he said to himself.  “I think Voltaire will find that the sun is even as warm and cheering at Sans-Souci as at Cirey, and that we can be gay and happy without the presence of the divine Emilie, who enters one moment with her children, and the next with her learned and abstruse books. [Footnote:  Voltaire lived for ten years in Cirey with his friend the Marquise Emilie de Chatelet Samont, a very learned lady, to whom he was much devoted.  He had refused all Frederick’s invitations because he was unwilling to be separated from this lady.  After twenty years of marriage, in the year 1749, the countess gave birth to her first child; two hours after the birth of her son, she seated herself at her writing-table to write an essay on the Newtonian system; in consequence of this she sickened and died in two days.  After her death, Voltaire accepted Frederick’s invitation to Sans-Souci.] Ah!  I wish he were here; so long as I do not see him, I doubt if he will come.”

At this moment the king saw the shadow of a manly figure thrown upon the terrace, which the evening sun lengthened into a giant’s stature.  He turned and greeted the Marquis d’Argens, who had just entered, with a gracious smile.

“You are indeed kind, marquis,” said Frederick; “you have returned from Berlin so quickly, I think Love must have lent you a pair of wings.”

“Certainly, Love lent me his wings; the little god knew that your majesty was the object of my greatest admiration, and that I wished to fly to your feet and shake out from my horn of plenty the novelties and news of the day.”

“There is something new, then?” said the king.  “I have done well in sending you as an ambassador to the Goddess of Rumor; she has graciously sent you back full-handed:  let us see, now, in what your budget consists.”

“The first, and I am sorry to say the most welcome to your majesty, is this—­Voltaire has arrived in Berlin, and will be here to-morrow morning.”

The king’s countenance was radiant with delight, but he was considerate, and did not express his rapture.

“Dear marquis, you say that Voltaire has arrived.  Do you indeed regret it?”

D’Argens was silent and thoughtful for a moment; he raised his head, and his eyes were obscured by tears.

“Yes,” said he, “I am sorry!  We greet the close of a lovely day, no matter how glorious the declining sun may be, with something of fear and regret; who can tell but that clouds and darkness may be round about the morning?  To-morrow a new day dawns and a new sun rises in Sans-Souci.  Sire, I grieve that this happy day is ended.”