There was a long silence. Suddenly, Frederick grasped his knee. “Ouch!”
Voltaire laughed. The others glared at him.
“Monsieur, is it proper to laugh at a Monarch’s predicament?”
“I am laughing at rheumatism which does not seem to discriminate between a royal knee and an old washerwoman’s, Your Majesty.”
“Monsieur would spend his life in the Bastille rather than avoid a witticism.”
“The King allows freedom of mind and speech, n’est-ce-pas?” Voltaire rose and walked out, beating his leg with a short whip.
“If you are not careful, monsieur, the whip shall be in the hands of another, and the part struck shall be somewhat higher than your calf.”
Voltaire remained at the door for a moment. “Your Majesty, here is the whip and here the part higher than my calf.”
He turned his back to the King, bending forward.
“Cochon!” Frederick shouted, his voice a thin thread, “Ne te montre plus ici!”
Voltaire walked out.
Frederick reseated himself. No one dared to utter a sound or make a comment.
“Let us have another drink and forget that French buffoon. His work will not outlive him a day.”
All agreed.
“It lives now only because monarchs are too kindly disposed.”
Everybody chimed in. They had found him a monkey in truth. His philosophy was mere antics. His Majesty should command a good horsewhipping for the scoundrel.
“If I did it, all Europe would rise in arms against me. His influence is tremendous and his tongue stings like a lash. Besides, somehow I like him. I do not know what attracts me to him. And he likes me too. Tomorrow, I shall get a letter from him,—such a letter as no one but a witty Frenchman can write. He will tell me things that will split my sides with laughter. But this time, he must really go. He has been for nearly three years with me. Besides, that man has seduced half of the court women, including the servants and the coachmen’s wives. Cochon! He faints every day, and every evening he is resurrected. He will live to be a hundred. He is the personification of France,—hog, nightingale, and peacock. There is no country like France, gentlemen. I would give half my wealth if we could produce a Voltaire.”
An officer entered and informed His Majesty that it was time for the council, also incidentally, that Monsieur Voltaire had left.
“The fool!” His Majesty shouted.
My stay at the Court of Frederick the Great was of a short duration. I had no intention to amuse His Majesty by my ability to speak many languages, tell anecdotes, or cure his rheumatism. My experience with Charlemagne was too painful to be forgotten.
Elections in Poland were more turbulent than ever. The nobles could not decide upon a ruler. Frederick wished to reduce the noise and the danger by cutting a slice of the Polish kingdom. He needed money. His experiments in alchemy had proved futile and costly. My banks, less gaudy, but more substantial, supplied his needs.
Thenceforth Europe was firmly in my grasp.
I was the secret monarch of the world.
“Kotikokura, we must leave Sans-Souci. Before long swords will rattle and cannons boom. Our ears are too sensitive for such noise.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“There are still a few countries which I must capture. Then, I shall retire and watch the comedy. Do not imagine, however, that I mean to bring war and devastation upon the world. On the contrary. Ca-ta-pha is a gentle and peace-loving god. He will endeavor, whenever allowed by the cupidity and cruelty of man, to spread art and joy and wealth. It is probable, my friend, that his desire will be frustrated. It is also probable that people will blame him for their wars, and deny his peaceful pursuits. But that is unavoidable. Every crown is a crown of thorns. However, I shall be as cautious as possible, and the thorns shall not pierce too deeply.”
Kotikokura grinned.
LXXIX: ROTHSCHILD MOVES TO PARIS—A FASHIONABLE SALON—THE GOD ENNUI—KOTIKOKURA’S NEW LANGUAGE—ROUSSEAU MAKES A FOOL OF HIMSELF—I RECEIVE A MYSTERIOUS INVITATION—THE GOLDEN BOY—HERMA—A GLIMPSE OF LILITH
ROTHSCHILD transferred his main office to Paris. Quietly, subtly, like a spider, he was weaving the intricate web to capture all Europe for me.
France was a wise and fortunate choice. The king and nobles were deeply in debt and ready to pay exorbitant interest for ready cash. The banks were in a dilapidated condition, requiring the hand of a genius for reconstruction.
Meanwhile, Mayer-Anselm proved as honest as he had promised to be. My money, nearly tripled, awaited me wherever I ordered, while my many names were never associated with that of Prince Daniel Petrovich, Member of Russian Royalty, scholar, linguist, traveler, and lover.
Kotikokura and I walked arm in arm along the shore of the Seine. The stars dipped their long fingernails into the cool waters of the river. One flat-bottomed barge emerged silently from under the bridge. A couple, their arms wound about each other’s waists, bent over the rail and laughed.
“Spinoza was right, Kotikokura. The sea is our Mother. From the sea we come. Into the sea we go. Everything changes. The water remains. Where is the Paris through which we rode triumphantly with that strange man whose beard was a frozen cataract of amethysts? There is hardly a pile of stones, a bit of iron which is still intact. The Seine, however, flows on unconcerned. The Seine is like us, Kotikokura. All things about us decay and turn to dust. We remain.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“And yet, is there so colossal a change? Are there not now as then houses, streets, men, women? Now as then, people live by illusion. Then it was the Philosopher’s Stone. Now it is Reason. Always the futile search for happiness.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Then as now, a handful of people ruled the rest of the nation. Then as now, a few managed to live in luxury, while the rest tried to squeeze out of the hard and stony earth the milk of existence. Then as now, the poor hoped to become rich and the rich fought to retain their wealth. Nothing really changes, Kotikokura. Nothing is ever born. Nothing dies.”
I looked at my watch.
“But we are late, Kotikokura. The Marquise is awaiting us. Her food will become unpalatable. A dinner is more important to a hostess than all the truths of life and death. She is right. We live by food and not by melancholy meditation, watching the stars dip their fingertips into rivers.”
Madame la Marquise du Deffand bade me sit next to her. She placed her small ivory fan upon her lap and felt my face with both hands. They were delicate and white, but the knuckles had begun to assert themselves. She touched every part of my face and throat, lingering over my lips and forehead.
“Since I am blind, Prince, I have really begun to see faces. You are very handsome.”
“Madame forces me to acknowledge the truth which I prefer to hear rather than to express.”
She laughed a low guttural sound not unpleasant, but cheerless.
“You Russians learn the art of words so readily. You have much in common with us although it is not evident on the surface. But then, you have been in France before?”
“Long ago, Madame, in my youth.”
The Marquise laughed. “Long ago! How can you know the meaning of long ago, monsieur? But youth, of course, will draw voluptuous pleasure even out of such a thought, however distasteful it may be to those really afflicted with age.”
“How should Madame know the distastefulness of age?”
She struck me lightly with her fan. “Flattery is always delicious—at my age.”
“I insist, madame. You can have no conception of the meaning of age.”
“Let me feel your lips, Prince.”
She felt my lips with the tips of her fingers, perfumed with lavender.