“Sire,” said he, softly, “I will not have this poem published.  You are right, Voltaire does not acknowledge it.  This poor verse was written by Arouet, or the ‘old Adam,’ who often strikes the poet Voltaire slyly in the back.  But you, sire, who have already won five battles, and who find a few morning hours sufficient to govern a great kingdom with wisdom, consideration, and love; you, by one kindly glance of your eye, will be able to banish the old Adam, and call heavenly hymns of love and praise from the lips of Voltaire.”

“I shall be content with hymns of love.  I will spare you all eulogy,” cried Frederick, giving his hand warmly to Voltaire.

At the close of the first day at Sans-Souci, the new gentleman of the bedchamber returned to Potsdam, adorned with the order “Pour le merite,” and a written assurance from the king of a pension of five thousand thalers in his pocket.

Two richly-liveried servants received him at the gate of the palace; one of them held a silver candelabrum, in which five wax-lights were burning.  Voltaire leaned, exhausted and groaning, upon the arm of the other, who almost carried him into his apartment.  Voltaire ordered the servant to place the lights on the table, and to wait in the anteroom for further orders.

Scarcely had the servant left the room when Voltaire, who had thrown himself, as if perfectly exhausted, in the arm-chair, sprang up actively and hastened to the table upon which the candelabrum stood; raising himself on tiptoe, he blew out three of the lights.

“Two are enough,” said he, with a grimace.  “I am to receive twelve pounds of wax-lights a month.  I will be very economical, and out of the proceeds of this self-denial I can realize a little pin-money for my niece, Denis.”  He took the candelabrum and entered his study.

It was curious to look upon this lonely, wrinkled, decrepit old man, in the richly-furnished but half-obscure room; the dull light illuminated his malicious but smiling face; here and there as he advanced it flashed upon the gilding, or was reflected in a mirror, while behind him the gloom of night seemed to have thrown an impenetrable veil.

Voltaire seated himself at his desk and wrote to his niece, Madame Denis:  “I have bound myself with all legal form to the King of Prussia.  My marriage with him is determined upon.  Will it be happy?  I do not know.  I could no longer postpone the decisive yes.  After coquetting for so many years, a wedding was the necessary consequence.  How my heart beat at the altar!  How could I have supposed, seven months ago, when we arranged our little house in Paris, that I should be to-day three hundred leagues from home in another man’s house, and this other a ruler!” [Footnote:  Oeuvres Completes, 301.]