The Countess von Rudolstadt

Chapter I

The Italian Opera in Berlin, built during the first years of the reign of Frederick the Great, was then one of the most beautiful auditoriums in all Europe. There was no charge for admission, as the king paid for the show. Yet tickets were required because the boxes had all been permanently assigned: here the princes and princesses of the royal family, there the diplomats, then the traveling celebrities and the members of the Academy, elsewhere the generals; finally, everywhere the king’s family, the king’s household, the king’s employees, the king’s protégés; and no one had grounds for complaint, since it was the king’s theater and the king’s players. For the fine inhabitants of the fine city of Berlin there remained a few spots in the orchestra, occupied for the most part by the military, as every regiment had the right to send a certain number of men per company. Instead of the joyous, impressionable, and quick-witted populace of Paris, the artists looked out upon an orchestra thronged with six-foot heroes, as Voltaire used to call them. With their high-crowned caps, and most of them with their wives hoisted up on their shoulders, this rather brutish fellowship reeked of tobacco and schnapps, understood absolutely nothing, and looked goggle-eyed at everything. Out of respect for their orders, they neither clapped nor whistled, yet made lots of noise with their perpetual jostling.

Behind these gentlemen there were invariably two rows of boxes from which no one could see or hear a single thing. Yet, for reasons of propriety, the occupants of these boxes were forced to attend on a regular basis the performances that His Majesty so generously provided them. His Majesty never missed a show. This was a way of keeping a military eye on his numerous family and the restless anthill of his courtiers. Here he followed the example of his father, Big Willy, who had made the royal family and court spend every winter evening in front of third-rate German actors in a hall of poorly joined planks. Bored to death and chilled to the bone, there they sat without batting an eye while rain dripped down on them and the king snoozed. Frederick had suffered from this domestic tyranny; he had cursed it and endured it; and no sooner had he in turn become master than he promptly reestablished the same system, along with several other much more despotic and cruel customs, whose excellence he had come to recognize now that he was the only one in his kingdom not to suffer from them any longer.

Yet no one dared complain. The building was superb and luxuriously appointed, the artists remarkable, and the king, almost always standing in the orchestra near the footlights, his opera glass trained on the stage, gave an example of indefatigable enthusiasm for the arts.

Everyone knows how Voltaire, recently installed in Berlin, praised the splendors of the court of this Solomon of the North. Scorned by Louis XV, neglected by his patroness Mme de Pompadour, persecuted by the vulgar Jesuits, hooted down at the Théâtre-Français, he got fed up one day and came in search of honors, a salary, a chamberlain’s title, a grand sash, and an intimate friendship with a philosopher-king, which, in his estimation, was more flattering than all the rest. Like an overgrown child, the great Voltaire was pouting at France and thought that he had really found a way to get the goat of his ungrateful compatriots. He was therefore a bit drunk on his new glory when he wrote to his friends that Berlin was as fine as Versailles, that Phaëton was the most beautiful opera ever, and that the prima donna had the most beautiful voice in all Europe.

Yet, at the time when we resume our tale (so as not to weary our dear readers, we’ll let them know that nearly a year has passed since Consuelo’s last adventures), winter in all its rigor had settled down on Berlin, the great king had shown his true colors a bit, and Voltaire was starting to feel singularly disillusioned about Prussia. Seated in his box between d’Argens and La Mettrie, he no longer pretended to love music, for which he had no more feeling than for true poetry. His bowels were bothering him, and he was mournfully remembering those thankless audiences in Parisian theaters, whose resistance had been such a bitter pill for him, whose applause had tasted so sweet, whose contact, in a word, had put him in such terrible turmoil that he had sworn not to expose himself to that again, even though he could think of nothing else and endlessly toiled for them.

Yet that evening the performance was excellent. It was carnival; the entire royal family, even the margraves who had married into the depths of the German provinces, had assembled in Berlin. Titus by Metastasio and Hasse was on the program, and the two leading members of the Italian company, Porporino and Porporina, had the starring roles.

With a slight effort of memory our dear readers will recall that these two were not husband and wife, as their stage names would seem to suggest. The first was Signor Uberti, an excellent contralto, and the second was the Zingarella Consuelo, with her admirable voice, both students of Professor Porpora, who had allowed them, according to the Italian custom of the time, to take their teacher’s glorious name.

One must admit that in Prussia Signora Porporina did not sing with all the spirit of which she had felt capable in better days. While her colleague’s clear contralto, sheltered by a secure livelihood, a habit of uncontested success and a fixed fee of fifteen thousand pounds for two months of work, resonated without fail under the vaulted ceiling of the Berlin Opera, the poor Zingarella, perhaps of a more romantic mind, certainly more disinterested and less accustomed to the icy North and the chilly reception of Prussian corporals, did not feel any electricity and sang with that conscientious, perfect method that kept her safe from criticism but failed to arouse any enthusiasm. There is a close reciprocal relationship between the enthusiasm of the dramatic artist and that of the audience, and there was no enthusiasm in Berlin during the glorious reign of Frederick the Great. Regularity, obedience, and what was called reason in the eighteenth century and especially at Frederick’s court were the only virtues that could blossom in that atmosphere weighed and measured by the king’s hand. In any assembly over which he presided, one breathed in and out only as much as the king deigned to allow. In that whole crowded auditorium there was but one spectator free to give way to his impressions, and that was the king. He himself was the entire audience, and even though he was a good musician and loved music, all his faculties and tastes were subordinated to such an icy logic that the royal opera glass fixed on every gesture and seemingly every inflection of the diva’s voice, instead of stimulating her, made her feel totally paralyzed.

It was moreover fortunate for her to be subjected to this harrowing fascination. The tiniest dose of inspiration, the slightest burst of unexpected passion would probably have scandalized the king and his court, whereas intricate, arduous passages executed with the purity of an irreproachable instrument thrilled the king, the court, and Voltaire. As every one knows, Voltaire said, "Italian music is far superior to French music because it has more ornaments, and triumphing over difficulty is something at least." That sums up Voltaire’s aesthetics. He could have said like a certain witty contemporary when someone asked if he liked music: it doesn’t exactly bother me.

Everything was going well, and the opera was drawing to a close without mishap. The king was very pleased, and every now and then he turned around to nod in approval at his choirmaster. He was even preparing to applaud Porporina at the end of her cavatina, as he was kind enough to do in person and always judiciously. Just then, by some inexplicable whim, Porporina, in the middle of a brilliant trill that had never given her any trouble, stopped short, stared with a haggard eye into a corner of the auditorium, clasped her hands, exclaimed, "Oh my God! and fell down flat in a faint on the stage. Porporino hastened to get her up; she had to be carried offstage; and the auditorium began to buzz with questions, remarks, and observations. During this commotion that muffled his curt, imperious tone, the king bellowed to the tenor still on stage, Well, what’s going on? What’s the meaning of this? Conciolini, go have a look, and make it snappy!"

Conciolini returned a few seconds later. Respectfully bowing over the footlights near which the king was still standing, leaning on an elbow, he said, Your Majesty, it’s as though Signora Porporina were dead. It is feared that she’ll be unable to finish the opera.

Nonsense! said the king shrugging his shoulders. Get her a glass of water and some smelling salts, and let’s wind this up as soon we can.

Conciolini, who had no desire to provoke the king and suffer a public broadside of temper, scurried back into the wings like a rat, and the king began a lively chat with the head of the orchestra and the musicians. Those in the audience who found the king’s mood far more interesting than poor Porporina made extraordinary efforts, but all in vain, to hear what the monarch was saying.

Baron von Poelnitz, the king’s great chamberlain and theater director, promptly appeared and gave Frederick an account of the situation. In Frederick’s realm nothing happened with the solemnity imposed by an independent, powerful people. . . . The king’s place was everywhere; the performance was his, and for him. No one was surprised to see him take the starring role in this unexpected interlude.

Now let’s see, Baron, said he in a voice loud enough to be heard by a portion of the orchestra, won’t this soon be over? It’s ridiculous! Don’t you have a doctor in the wings? You’ve always got to have a doctor at the theater.

Sire, the doctor is with her. He doesn’t dare bleed her for fear of aggravating her weakness and making it impossible for her to carry on. Yet he’ll be forced to do so if she doesn’t come out of her swoon.

So it’s serious! She’s not faking?

Sire, this strikes me as very serious.

In that case, drop the curtain, and let’s get going. Better yet, let’s have Porporino come sing us something for our trouble so that we don’t end on a catastrophe.

Porporino obeyed and sang two pieces admirably well. The king clapped his hands, the audience imitated him, and the show was over. A minute later, while the court and townspeople were leaving, the king was up on stage, having Poelnitz show him the way to Porporina’s dressing room.

When an actress is taken ill on stage, audiences are not always as compassionate as they ought to be. However much dilettantes may adore an idol, their pleasure is generally so egotistical that they are much more annoyed to forfeit some part of it due to an interrupted performance than they are affected by the victim’s sufferings and anguish. A few sensitive ladies, as people then used to say, deplored the evening’s catastrophe in the following terms.

"Poor little thing! She probably got a frog in her throat just as she was about to start on the trill, and for fear of getting it wrong, she preferred to have a spell."

As for me, I’m willing to believe that she wasn’t faking, said an even more sensitive lady. You don’t fall like a heap of bricks unless you’re truly ill.

Oh, who knows, my dear? replied the first lady. Great actresses fall as they wish, and they don’t worry about hurting themselves a bit. It has such an effect on the audience!

What the devil was going on with Porporina this evening, for her to make such a scene? La Mettrie asked the Marquis d’Argens in another part of the vestibule from which an elegant crowd was exiting. Do you suppose her lover beat her?

Don’t talk that way about a charming, virtuous girl, replied the marquis. She hasn’t got a lover, and if she ever does, she’ll never deserve such outrage, unless he’s the vilest of men.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, Marquis. I forgot that I was addressing the valiant champion and defender of all theater girls, past, present, and future! By the way, how is Mlle Cochois?"

At that same moment Princess Amalia, the king’s sister and abbess of Quedlinburg, was saying to her usual confidante, the beautiful Countess von Kleist, while they were being driven back to the palace, My dear child, did you notice how upset my brother got this evening?

No, Madame, replied Mme de Maupertuis, the princess’s head governess, an excellent person, very simple and very absentminded, I didn’t notice.

Well, I’m not talking to you, the princess retorted in the brusque, determined tone that made her seem so much like Frederick on occasion. Do you notice anything? Notice the stars just now. I’ve got something to say to von Kleist that I don’t want you to hear.

Mme de Maupertuis conscientiously closed her ears. The princess leaned over toward Mme von Kleist, seated across from her, and said, Say what you will; it seems to me that the king, maybe for the first time in fifteen or twenty years, since the time that I’ve been old enough to observe and understand, is in love.

Your Royal Highness said as much last year with regard to Signora Barberini. Yet the king had never dreamed of it.

Never dreamed of it! You’re wrong, my child. He had dreamed of it so much that when young Chancellor Cocceï made her his wife, my brother suffered three days long the worst repressed rage of his entire life.

Your Highness is well aware that His Majesty cannot bear misalliances.

Oh, yes, that’s what it’s called when people marry for love. A misalliance! Oh, what a grand word! Devoid of meaning, like all the words that rule the world and tyrannize every single soul.

The princess heaved a great sigh. Then, as was her custom, she slipped into another mood. Now ironic and impatient, she said to her head governess, "Maupertuis, you’re eavesdropping! You’re not looking at the stars, and those were my orders. It’s no good being the wife of such a great scholar if you’re going to listen to the twaddle of two silly women like von Kleist and me! Yes, I’m telling you, she said, turning back to her favorite, the king had a vague fancy for that Barberini girl. I know from reliable sources that he often went for tea with Jordan and Chazols in her rooms after the show. She even attended a few midnight suppers at Sans-Souci, which was unheard of in Potsdam before she came along. Do you want to hear more? She stayed there, she had her own rooms for weeks, maybe for months on end. You see that I know quite well what’s going on and that my brother’s airs of mystery don’t fool me."

Since Your Royal Highness is so well informed, she knows that, for reasons . . . of State which it is not my place to guess, the king has occasionally wanted to make people think that he was less austere than generally assumed, even though at bottom. . . .

Even though at bottom my brother hasn’t ever loved a woman, not even his own wife. That’s what they say, and that’s how things look, right? Well, I don’t believe in his virtue, even less his coldness. Frederick has always been a hypocrite, you see. But he won’t convince me that Signora Barberini stayed in his palace just to pretend to be his mistress. She’s as pretty as an angel, devilishly smart, well-educated, and speaks I don’t know how many languages.

She’s very virtuous and adores her husband.

And her husband adores her, all the more because their marriage is a horrible misalliance, right, von Kleist? Come now, you don’t want to answer me? I suspect, noble widow, that you are contemplating a misalliance with some poor page or skinny bachelor of science.

And Your Highness would also like to see an unseemly love affair between the king and some girl from the Opera?

Oh! With Porporina the thing would be more plausible and the distance less alarming. I imagine that in the theater, as at court, there is a hierarchy, for that bias is the whim and malady of the human race. A singer must have a much higher opinion of herself than a dancer. Besides, people say that Porporina is more intelligent, better educated, more gracious, that she knows even more languages than Barberini. Speaking languages he doesn’t know is my brother’s little quirk. And then there’s music, which he also pretends to love, even though he has no notion of it, you see? Yet another point of contact with our prima donna. Finally, she too goes to Potsdam in the summer; she has Barberini’s old rooms in the new Sans-Souci, she sings in the king’s little concerts. . . . Isn’t this enough for my conjecture to be true?

Your Highness vainly flatters herself to discover some weakness in the life of our great prince. All this is too conspicuous, too solemn for it to be a matter of love.

No, not love; Frederick doesn’t know what love is. But a certain attraction, a little intrigue. That’s what everybody’s whispering, and there’s no denying it.

No one believes it, Madame. They say that the king, to relieve his boredom, does his best to enjoy an actress’s chatter and pretty trills. But after fifteen minutes he says, as though he were speaking to one of his secretaries, ‘That’s enough for today; if I want more tomorrow, I’ll let you know.’

What a cad! If that’s how he courted Mme de Cocceï, I’m not surprised that she couldn’t put up with him. Does Porporina return the favor? What are people saying?

They say that she is perfectly modest, proper, timid, and sad.

Well, that’s the best way to please the king. Maybe she’s very clever. If only she were! If only we could trust her!

Don’t put your trust in anyone, Madame, I beg you, not even Mme de Maupertuis, who is sleeping so soundly.

Let her snore. Awake or asleep, she’s always the same old dolt. . . . Be that as it may, von Kleist, I want to get to know this Porporina and see if one can get anything out of her. I sorely regret having refused to have her in when the king proposed bringing her over one morning to make music. You know I was biased against her. . . .

For no good reason, I’m sure. It was altogether impossible. . . .

Well, now it’s in the hands of God. I’ve been so racked with grief and horror for the last year that less important worries have vanished. I want to see the girl. Who knows if she won’t succeed in winning from the king what we’ve been begging for in vain? That’s what I’ve been thinking for the last few days, and since the only thing I think about is you know what, when I saw Frederick worried and upset about her this evening, I became firmer in the opinion that therein lay our salvation.

Beware, Your Highness. . . . The danger is great.

That’s what you always say. I’m more wary and circumspect than you are. Well, we’ll have to mull it over. Wake up, dear governess, we’ve arrived.

Chapter II

While the beautiful young abbess¹ was making these observations, the king swept into Porporina’s dressing room without knocking. She had just begun to regain consciousness.

Well, Mademoiselle, he said in a tone without much sympathy or even courtesy, how are you feeling? Do you often suffer such spells? In your profession, that would be a serious inconvenience. Has something irked you? Are you so ill that you cannot answer me? Then you’ll answer for her, Doctor. Is she seriously ill?

Indeed, Sire, replied the doctor. Her pulse is scarcely perceptible, her circulation is greatly perturbed, and her basic functions seem suspended. Her skin is cold as ice.

True, said the king, taking the girl’s hand. "Her eyes are vacant, and her lips pale. Give her some of Dr. von Hoffmann’s drops, damn it! I thought it was all a sham, and I was wrong. The girl is terribly ill. She’s not unruly or flighty, right, Signor Porporino? Did anybody upset her tonight? Nobody’s ever had any reason to complain about her, right?"

Sire, she’s not an actress, but an angel, replied Porporino.

Nothing less, eh? Are you in love with her?

No, Sire, I have infinite respect for her; she’s like a sister to me.

Thanks to the two of you, to God as well who doesn’t send actors straight to hell any longer, my theater is turning into a real academy of virtue! Look, she’s coming around a bit. Porporina, you know who I am, don’t you?

No, sir, she said, gazing with alarm at the king who was slapping her wrists.

Perhaps she’s had a seizure, said the king. Have you ever noticed any signs of epilepsy?

Oh! Sire, impossible! What a dreadful thought, exclaimed Porporino, wounded by the king’s boorish way of talking about such a fine person.

Hold on, don’t bleed her, said the king, pushing away the doctor and his scalpel. I don’t like to see innocent blood spilled nonchalantly off the battlefield. You doctors aren’t soldiers, but assassins. Leave her be, and give her some air. Porporino, don’t let him bleed her. See here, that can kill a person! These doctors have some nerve. I’m turning her over to you. Take her home in your carriage, Poelnitz! She’s your responsibility now. The greatest diva we’ve ever had, and we won’t find another one like her right now, maybe never. By the way, what are you singing for me tomorrow, Conciolini?

Chatting about some other matter, the king accompanied the tenor down the theater’s stairs and went to supper with Voltaire, La Mettrie, d’Argens, Algarotti, and General Quintus Icilius.

Frederick was tough, violent, and profoundly selfish. He was also generous and kind, even tender and affectionate when the spirit moved him. There is no paradox here. Everyone knows the simultaneously terrifying and seductive character of that man of many faces, a complex constitution full of contrasts, like all strong natures, especially when they’ve been invested with absolute power and tried by turbulent times.

Over supper, amidst jokes and small talk that was by turns bitter, elegant, brutish and subtle, among these dear friends whom he failed to find endearing and these admirable wits whom he did not admire much at all, Frederick suddenly turned introspective. He looked preoccupied for a moment or two, then got up and said to his guests, Carry on, I’m listening.

He went into the next room, took his cap and sword, gestured to a page to follow, and descended into the subterranean passages and mysterious stairways of his ancient palace. His guests, meanwhile, thinking that he was still within earshot, measured their words and dared not say a single thing that ought not fall on the king’s ears. Besides, they were all so wary of each other (and for good reason) that anywhere at all within the borders of Prussia they always felt Frederick’s terrifying, malicious spirit hovering overhead.

La Mettrie, a doctor whom the king rarely consulted and a reader to whom the king rarely listened, was the only one who knew no fear, nor did he inspire any. Considered altogether inoffensive, he had discovered a way to make himself invulnerable to harm. He did and said so many impertinent, outrageous, and silly things right under the royal nose that it was impossible to suspect him of anything more, and there was no enemy or spy who could ascribe to this impudent wag a wrong that he had not already openly, audaciously proclaimed before the king’s eyes. He seemed to take literally the egalitarian philosophy that the king affected in private with the seven or eight people whom he honored with his familiarity. At that time, about ten years into his reign, Frederick, who was still a young man, had not entirely thrown off the informal affability of the crown prince, of the bold philosopher of Rheinsberg. Those who knew the man were careful not to trust him. Voltaire, the most pampered of all and the latest arrival, was starting to get worried, having caught a few glimpses of the tyrant’s face beneath the mask of the good prince, of Dionysius of Syracuse lurking behind Marcus Aurelius. Yet La Mettrie, out of incredible naïveté, deep design, or bold indifference, gave the king the cavalier treatment that he purportedly desired. He removed his cravat, his wig, even his shoes in the king’s rooms, lounged on the sofas, spoke his mind, openly contradicted the king, made offhand remarks about the vanity of this world’s pomp, the throne, the altar, and all the other preconceived ideas against which present-day reason had done battle. In short, he acted like a true cynic, and his behavior gave so many grounds for disgrace or dismissal that it was a miracle to see him still standing when so many others had been knocked down and smashed for mere peccadillos. For people like Frederick, prone to suspicion and quick to take offense, an insidious word relayed by his spies, a semblance of hypocrisy, or a slight doubt create more of an impression than a thousand reckless stunts. Frederick, who considered La Mettrie insane, was often so astonished by the man that he would stop short, petrified with surprise, and say to himself, The impudence of this animal is truly a scandal, then add this aside, But the man is sincere, and he’s not playing a double game with me. There’s no way he could abuse me more in secret than he does right to my face. Yet all the rest of them, who do nothing but fawn at my feet, what don’t they say and do when my back is turned and they stand back up? So La Mettrie must be the most honest man I’ve got, and I must tolerate him all the more because he’s intolerable.

Thus, their routine was set. La Mettrie, who could no longer ruffle the king, even managed to make him chortle over capers that would have been judged revolting on the part of anyone else. From the very start Voltaire had launched into a system of adulation that he found impossible to sustain, and now even he was growing weary and strangely sick of it. La Mettrie, meanwhile, went on amusing himself. He was as much at ease with Frederick as with anybody else, and he felt no need to curse and overthrow an idol to whom he had neither sacrificed nor promised a single thing. For that reason Frederick, who was also growing weary of Voltaire, heartily enjoyed La Mettrie’s company and could scarcely do without him since La Mettrie was the only one who did not merely pretend to enjoy Frederick’s.

The Marquis d’Argens, a chamberlain with a stipend of six thousand francs (Voltaire, as first chamberlain, was paid twenty thousand francs), was a light philosopher, a facile, superficial writer, a true Frenchman of his time, kind, scatterbrained, libertine, sentimental, at one and the same time stout-hearted, effeminate, witty, generous, and derisive; a man neither young nor old, romantic as a swain, skeptical as a graybeard. Having spent his entire youth with actresses, deceiving and deceived in turn, but always madly in love with the latest one, he wound up contracting a secret marriage with Mlle Cochois, the star of the Comédie-Française in Berlin, a most ugly and most intelligent person, to whom he enjoyed giving an education. Frederick was still unaware of their clandestine union, and d’Argens carefully concealed it from those who could betray him. Voltaire, however, was in on the secret. D’Argens sincerely loved the king, but he was no more loved than anyone else. Frederick did not believe in anyone’s affection, and poor d’Argens was now the accessory, now the butt of his cruelest jokes.

The colonel whom Frederick had decorated with the pompous sobriquet of Quintus Icilius was, as everyone knows, a man of French ancestry named Guichard. He was an energetic soldier, a clever tactician, also a great pillager, like all the men of his sort, and a courtier in the fullest sense of the term.

We shall say nothing about Algarotti, so as not to weary the reader with a whole gallery of historical characters. It will suffice to relate the worries of Frederick’s guests while he was elsewhere. Finding no relief from the secret discomfort that oppressed them, they felt even more uneasy, unable to say a single word without glancing at the half-open door through which the king had passed, behind which he was perhaps keeping an eye on them.

La Mettrie was the sole exception. Observing that the table service had been neglected in the king’s absence, he blurted out, Gracious, how rude of the master of the house to leave us like this without servants or champagne, and I’m going to go see if he’s there to bring him my complaint.

He got up and, without fear of indiscretion, went into the king’s bedroom, then came back exclaiming, Nobody there! How amusing! He may well have mounted up and gone for a torch-lit drill to stimulate his digestion. What an odd one he is!

You’re the odd one! replied Quintus Icilius, who could not stomach La Mettrie’s strange ways.

So the king has gone out? asked Voltaire, beginning to breathe more easily.

Yes, the king has gone out, said Baron von Poelnitz, entering the room. I just ran across him in a back courtyard with a single page as escort. He was going totally incognito in his drab cloak. That’s why I didn’t know who he was.

This freshly arrived third chamberlain requires a word of explanation. Otherwise, the reader will never understand why someone other than La Mettrie dared talk about the king so unceremoniously. Poelnitz, whose age, stipend, and functions were equally problematic, was the Prussian baron, the Regency rake who, in his youth, had played such a brilliant role at the court of the Palatine princess, the Duke of Orleans’ mother; a wild gambler whose debts the Prussian king no longer wished to reimburse, a great adventurer, a cynical libertine, very much a spy, a bit of a crook, a cheeky courtier who was fed, chained, scorned, ridiculed, and paid only a pittance by his master, who nevertheless could not do without him, for an absolute monarch always needs to have at hand a man who is capable of the worst things, who finds therein a compensation for his humiliations and the justification of his existence. At this time Poelnitz was also the director of His Majesty’s theaters, a sort of supreme steward of the king’s trivial pleasures. People already called him old Poelnitz, and that was still the case thirty years later. He was the eternal courtier and had been a page to the previous king. In his person he joined the elegant vices of the Regency, the cynical vulgarity of Big Willy’s smoking dens, and the impertinent stiffness of Frederick the Great’s witty, militaristic reign. As Frederick considered him in a chronic state of disgrace, Poelnitz worried little about losing favor. Besides, since he always acted as an agent provocateur, he truly had no fear that anyone could do him harm around the master who employed him.

Good God! my dear Baron, exclaimed La Mettrie, you should have followed the king and come back to tell us his adventures. Then, upon his return, we would have made him mad as hell saying that we’d seen everything without so much as leaving the table.

Even better! laughed Poelnitz, We’d only tell him tomorrow, giving the sorcerer all the credit.

What sorcerer? asked Voltaire.

The famous Count de Saint-Germain, who arrived here this morning.

Truly? I’m very curious to know if he’s a charlatan or a madman.

There’s the rub, said La Mettrie. He plays his cards so close to his chest that nobody can decide.

I say, that’s not so crazy! added Algarotti.

Tell me about Frederick, said La Mettrie. I’d like to whet his curiosity with a good anecdote so that he’ll treat us to a supper of Saint-Germain and his antediluvian adventures. How amusing! Now let’s see, where can our dear monarch be at this hour? Surely you know, Baron! You’re too curious not to have followed him, or too clever not to have guessed.

So you want me to tell you? asked Poelnitz.

I do hope, said Quintus, turning purple with indignation, that you won’t answer La Mettrie’s strange questions. If His Majesty. . . .

Oh, my dear friend, said La Mettrie, from ten in the evening until two in the morning no king is present here. Frederick established the rule once and for all, and it’s the only rule I know: There are no kings at supper. Don’t you see that this poor king gets bored? And you, bad servant and bad friend that you are, you’re not eager to help him forget the burden of his greatness during the sweet hours of the night? Come, Poelnitz, dear Baron, tell us! Where is the king just now?

I don’t wish to know, said Quintus, standing up and leaving the table.

As you wish, said Poelnitz. Let those who don’t want to hear plug their ears.

I’m opening mine, said La Mettrie.

Here, here! Me, too! chortled Algarotti.

Gentlemen, said Poelnitz, His Majesty is at Signora Porporina’s place.

And you really think we’ll believe that one? La Mettrie howled, adding a Latin phrase that I cannot translate because I don’t know the tongue.

Quintus Icilius paled and left the room. Algarotti recited an Italian sonnet that I don’t much understand either. Voltaire improvised four lines of verse comparing Frederick to Julius Caesar, at which point the three learned men exchanged smiles. Then Poelnitz continued with a solemn look, I give you my word of honor that the king is at Porporina’s.

Couldn’t you give us something else? asked d’Argens, who found all this basically unpleasant, as he was not a man to betray others in order to augment his own credit.

Poelnitz replied, unperturbed, Blast it, marquis, when the king tells us that you’re at Mlle Cochois’s place, we’re not the least bit scandalized. So why are you scandalized about his being at Mlle Porporina’s place?