“My duty is my religion. My God is the Providence which guides the destinies of the nations but leaves individuals to themselves! What are men that you should take notice of these ants?” The conversation was interrupted by a person who appeared in the background and resembled a judicial official. Voltaire saw who it was, and became furious: “Your Majesty, how can you allow this rag-tag and bob-tail to enter the castle-park? Why do you not enclose it with iron gates and railings?” “No,” answered the King; “I am not the master of my own person, still less of this castle, but all have rights over me!” “But this is atrocious! Can I not drive him away?” “No, you cannot!” The King beckoned, and the stranger approached with his hat in his hand. “What do you want, my friend?” asked the King. “Only to deliver a document to Monsieur Voltaire, your Majesty.” “Then do your duty.” The man handed the document to Voltaire, and retired. When the old man had opened and read it, he fell on his knees before the King and exclaimed, “Save me, sire!” “That is your law-suit with Hirschel about the Saxon state papers. You thought to deceive each other and the public, but the Jew did not let you lead him by the nose, Monsieur, and now you are exposed as a falsifier!” “Save me, your Majesty!” “How can I?” “With a word--a single good word before the court....” “For shame, old man! Do you think I can bend the law? Do you want me to bribe the judges? No, Monsieur, there are judges in Berlin who cannot be bribed! My word counts as little as that of the meanest. Stand up, go to your room, and meet me at supper.” “Sire, I beg to be excused coming to supper this evening.” “Good! then we will meet to-morrow.” * * * * * When Voltaire reached his room, he began to search through his papers which he had left in disorder. He looked for a whole hour for the letter he had written to the Marquise, without being able to find it. Then he perceived that the letter had been seized, and he conceived a suspicion against the King. He stormed about in the room till it had become dark outside. He felt that it was all over with friendship and hospitality, with high position and honour, and that he must depart--perhaps by flight. Accordingly he closed the window-shutters, and made a fire in the stove in order to burn dangerous papers. When he had finished, he went to bed, and rang for a servant: “Ask Monsieur La Mettrie to come; I am ill,” he ordered. La Mettrie, the author of _L’Homme Machine_, a most rigorous materialist and atheist, enjoyed Frederick’s favour on account of his writings. After his death the King himself delivered a funeral oration over him in the Academy. Voltaire was jealous of him, as he was of everyone who stood in his way, but La Mettrie was a physician, and Voltaire could be amiable to anyone of whom he stood in need.