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.
The doctor came, not out of philanthropy, but from curiosity and a
certain malicious satisfaction at seeing the favourite in disgrace.
"My dear friend," said the old man, "I am sick in body and soul."
"You haven't got a soul."
"But the trouble is in the heart."
"_Cor, cordis_, the heart; then you have eaten too much. Take a
purge, Monsieur; then you will be lighter than lightmindedness
itself."
"Prescribe me some proper medicine, man; I am dying.
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