At this point there was heard from the castle the penetrating sound of a flute, which executed trills and shakes. The old man (for he was now in his sixtieth year) first put his fingers in his ears, but then continued to write.... “And then his confounded flute! He is playing on it just now ... that means we are all to dance to his piping. But still worse than the flute is something which they call a fugue; I do not know whether one can call it music, but yesterday Sebastian Bach was here--‘the great Bach’ of course--and had his son Philipp Emanuel with him. The whole afternoon they played so-called fugues, so that I had to go to bed and take medicine. As regards his plans, I will only indicate some of them. One plan is to divide Austria between France and Prussia, but he is too cunning to do so, for he needs Austria to help him against France. A second plan is, to divide Prussia between Russia and Austria, and I have heard rumours of a third to divide Poland between Russia, Prussia, and Austria. (The flute is silent, and a heavenly stillness spreads over Sans-Souci, which for the future I shall write ‘Cent-Soucis,’ for a hundred petty vexations threaten to shorten my life here.) Our Round Table, which hitherto only consisted of men of talent, Maupertuis, La Mettrie, Algarotti, D’Argens, and their like, is now recruited by guardsmen from Potsdam, and is in course of degenerating into a tobacco-club. Ziethen and his Dessauers wear greasy leather boots, and brag of their ‘five victories.’ The day before yesterday they took liberties, silenced all intelligent conversation, and finally tried to make me the butt of their jests. What annoyed me the most was that _he_ could not hide his pleasure at it. Altogether, the procession of the leather boots means war--as might be expected--against the lady Maria Teresa. The other lady, the Empress Elizabeth of Russia, he denotes by another uglier name.... He has become a women’s hero, the nasty woman-hater. His wife, Elizabeth Christine, is still confined in Schönhausen.” A head looked in at the window, and the King greeted him, “Good evening, Monsieur; so busy?” Like a boy surprised in cribbing, the writer threw his papers into disorder, and drew half a sheet of Dutch vellum over them. “Yes, sire, I have just finished a poem to the Emperor Kian-Loung, which is an answer to his ‘Eloge de Mukden.’” “To the Emperor of China! You have grander acquaintances than I.” “But you have me, sire.” This he said with a superior air of satirising himself, as though he would make game of his own notorious vanity. The King took the jest as it was intended. “Yes, Monsieur Voltaire belongs to my most honourable acquaintances, but I would not say to the grandest.” “May I now read my poem to the Chinese Emperor? Do you allow me, sire?” “Would it be any use, if I did not allow it, you pushing man?” “Very well: “‘Recois mes compliments, charmant roi de la Chine.’” “But he is an Emperor.”