"But your majesty is pleased to lend your ears to my enemies," said Voltaire, sullenly; "exactly those who attack me most virulently receive the highest honors at the hands of your majesty. You are as cruel with me as a beautiful and ravishing coquette. So soon as by a love-glance you have made me the happiest of men, you turn away with cold contempt, and smile alluringly upon my rivals. I have yet two dagger-strokes in my heart, which cause me death-agony. If your majesty would make me truly happy, you must cure the wounds with your own hands." "I will, if it is possible," said the king, gravely. "Let us hear of what you complain." "Sire, your majesty has made Freron your correspondent in Paris-- Freron, my most bitter enemy, my irreconcilable adversary. But it is not because he is my foe that I entreat you to dismiss him; you will not think so pitifully of me as to suppose that this is the reason I entreat you to dismiss him from your service. My personal dislike will not make me blind to the worth of Freron as a writer. No, sire, Freron is not worthy of your favor; he is an openly dishonored scoundrel, who has committed more than one common fraud. You may imagine what an excitement it produced in Paris when it was known that you had honored this scamp with a position which should be filled by a man of wisdom and integrity. Freron is only my enemy because, in spite of all entreaties, I have closed my house upon him. I took this step for reasons which should have closed the doors of every respectable house against him. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.] Sire, I implore you, do not let the world believe for a single day longer that Freron is your correspondent. Dismiss him at once from your service." The king did not reply for a few moments; he walked backward and forward several times, then stood quietly before Voltaire. The expression of his eye was stern. "I sacrifice Freron to you," said he, "because I will deny you nothing on this, the day of your arrival; but I repeat to you what I said before, 'be not only a great poet, be also a good man.'" Voltaire shook his head, sadly. "Sire," said he, "in your eyes I am not a great poet, only un soleil couchant. Remember Arnaud, my pupil, whom I sent to you!" "Aha!" cried the king, laughing, "you have, then, read my little poem to Arnaud?" "Sire, I have read it, and that was the second dagger-stroke which I received on this journey, to which my loving heart forced my weak and shrinking body; I felt that I must see you once more before I died. Yes, I have read this terrible poem, and the lines have burned into my heart these cruel words:"